Waltz of Roses
by Kaizen Kitty
Summary: "Honestly Bek, when you skate... it kind of looks like you have a stick up your ass." / Or, where Yuri Plisetsky gives Otabek dance lessons to improve his skating artistic elements, but they end up pair skating at the 2018 Olympics and falling in love instead.
1. Goodbye Piter

_**Waltz of Roses**_

 **.**

 _If they only know, you're my desire, the world would put an end to us. I ride in the night, on the back of your bike, with my hands, my hands to the sky._  
― Serayah Ranee McNeill, Starlight.

* * *

 **.**

 **Goodbye Piter**

 _And if the man can't dance, he gets no second chance.  
_ ― Alesha Dixon, The Boy Does Nothing.

.

Talking was not his strong suit. Otabek shifted uncomfortably in the creaking antique armchair Yura had shifted toward him. An empty bowl of okroshka lay on the tablecloth in front of Otabek. Yura was on his second glass of Pepsi-Cola: two ice cubes were dying in his tall soda glass, droplets gathered on the outside. The glass was wet, Yura's hand was wet, and the coaster was growing wet underneath it. Yura pushed the ice cubes around with his straw. He looked up at Otabek and smiled.

"What are you thinking of?" he said. He said it easily, as if the answer was a trivial one to give, as if Otabek's present thoughts could all be transmitted by only a few words.

Otabek looked down at his hands. Talking was not his strong suit, but he had so many things to say; he couldn't find the words for them. Instead Otabek looked out the window, down at the yard ― he saw a couple of kids play, their mothers sat on the swings. Yura's knee knocked against his under the table. Otabek did not move his knee away.

Finally, staring contemplatively at the Sirin Bird salt shaker, Otabek said, "You."

A long and heavy silence filled the room. The clocks struck six. A bird jumped out the clock and tweeted obscenely loudly six times. Their knees remained linked under the table, hidden from sight by the long white tablecloth.

Yura raised a fist to his lips and coughed into it. "Still can't believe it's your last day in Piter."

Otabek moved his knee away from Yura's. He stood, gathered his empty bowl, and walked it to the kitchen. Icons of the Holy Mother Mary and of Jesus Christ himself hung on the walls, along with dozens of other saints Otabek couldn't name. He let his bowl slide in the corked sink, and ran the tap. Yura stood in the doorframe, Pepsi glass in hand, watching him. Otabek scrubbed the bowl with a ferocity that made his skin raw. If he couldn't say what he felt he would punish himself for it; punish himself for even thinking it, for dreaming, and hoping.

"Neither can I," said Yura's grandfather, who sat in the small kitchen nearby a window reading the Kommersant. The date stamped on the newspaper was yesterday. "You've been a great help around the house, Otabek, I'm quite sad to see you leave."

Looking up at the old man, Otabek attempted a smile. It came out faintly, and clung like a pained strain to his face, the muscles around his mouth tense and hurt. There were so many things he wanted to say, but all that came out his dried throat was "Thank you, it's been a pleasure staying here."

The man smiled back amiably, then lifted the newspaper to his face again. Otabek placed the soaking bowl in the dish rack. Yashka came in mewling and rubbed himself against Otabek's legs. Smiling fondly, Otabek reached down and gave the cat a soft pat on the head. Closing his eyes Yashka purred.

Yura set his glass in the sink and clapped Otabek on the shoulder. "You've spoilt him. Now he'll never let you go."

Otabek stared back at Yura's face framed by long golden hair, and was lost in the sea-green of his eyes. For the life of him he could not remember packing, carrying his lightweight gym bag down the stairs because the elevator was being repaired for the second time this month, cramming inside Yura's grandfather's ancient Moskvich, and the drive to Pulkovo; then going through customs, the last text from Yura before being told to turn off his phone,

 _ **Yuratchka:** Some dicty missus just missed the 22:15 to Ufa and exploded in random expletives! XD Learned a bunch of new words._

 _ **re:** Go home Yura, get some sleep before tomorrow's training._

 _ **Yuratchka:** I wanted to see your plane take off. Are you on the runway yet?_

 _ **re:** They told me to turn my phone off. Bye Yura, see you tomorrow._

He didn't catch Yura's next text. His phone off, the plane lifted itself into the sky, and Otabek filled the time staring out the window, watching the glimmering lights of St Petersburg get forever smaller. Over these last three months, more things had happened to him than usually did in the scope of years. He yawned and his ears popped painfully.

* * *

 **.**

 **Three months ago.**

 **.**

Yuri pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Otabek's skates scraped the ice. His panting breath came closer, closer, until Yuri could feel it blow against his own cheek. He bit his lip, opened his eyes. Otabek stood right in front of him; in those undersized silver pants and a simple black tee. Their eyes met.

"Don't ask me something like that!"

Shocked by how loud his voice was, Yuri took a step back. His words echoed all over the deserted rink. He pursed his lips, and folded his arms over his chest.

Otabek's bushy eyebrows rose. "Why?" His deep baritone sounded hurt.

Yuri gulped before bracing himself, and looked deep in Otabek's black eyes. "Because you might not like my answer."

Otabek scowled. "I can take criticism."

That was true. Yuri deliberated a little longer before sharing his thoughts. It didn't seem the same though. It was not like Yakov or Viktor or even Lilia telling him he'd screwed up; no. That happened on a daily basis, and he really didn't mind, but this... For some reason, when Yuri imagined Otabek criticizing his skating, it felt like a slap to the face. And if Otabek felt the same, ... He couldn't do that to Otabek, no, he didn't want to. Yuri let out a long sigh.

"Honestly Bek, when you skate... it kind of looks like you have a stick up your ass."

Otabek shrugged. "I am not a homosexual."

Yuri's mouth fell open. His knees wobbled, his grip on the ice faltered, and he struggled to remain on his feet, drifting closer to Otabek. Yuri could feel his cheeks heat up.

"What? I'm not implying you are ―"

Otabek leaned forward. He towered over Yuri, their chests so close Yuri could smell his hair gel.

"Then what do you mean?" Sweat dripped down Otabek's forehead, spattering on Yuri's nose.

"Your, your back. It's stiff as a rod when you skate," Yuri said in a small voice. "You, you don't have to be good at ballet to show a bit more fluidity. You have... danced before, right?"

Otabek's narrowed eyes went wide and open like a child's. "No," he said, "no, I haven't."

Now it was Yuri's turn to look surprised. "Not even at school?"

Otabek shook his head.

"With your relatives? They never made you do any folk dances?"

"My family's not big on tradition."

Yuri stared at him, frowning. "And you've never been to any wedding receptions?"

"I've been to my brother's wedding. I just didn't dance there."

"Are you telling me that outside of skating, you've never moved in sync with music?"

"Pretty much."

"Bek, that's really bad. We have to change that pronto."

"Huh?"

"You can't go on like this. If you wonder why you're losing against meatheads like JJ and Pork Cutlet bowl, then do something about it. Change your routine. Make it look more natural."

"Are you seriously saying that ―"

"Yes! Yes a hundred times over. They've got nothing on you. You executed all your jumps flawlessly, without a single error. The only reason why that JJ clown ended up ahead of you was because he makes those fancy dance steps and sways his hips to impress the ladies, nothing else. You're better than him. Your jumps are cleaner and more athletic."

Yuri stopped talking when he realized he'd said too much. A cheerful smile had lit up Otabek's face; his eyes looked soft, half-lidded. Yuri coughed, and skated away from him. Stopping a few meters away, Yuri crossed his arms over his chest, and tapped his foot on the ice.

"Okay, show me that routine again."

* * *

If there was one thing Otabek truly hated, it was dancing. Now, braving the blizzard along with dozens of other teens who claimed they were 21, he waited in line to be admitted inside club Kiska. Darkness steadily fell over the city of white nights. Otabek rubbed his gloved palms together. His ears tingled from the cold. Yura, who was presently grumbling something under his breath, hands stuffed in his pockets, had dragged him out here 3 hours ago. He'd said that Mila knew a person, who knew a person, who knew a person who could get them in club Kiska without prior reservations. But Mila had been gone for over an hour now, after she'd slipped past the bouncers and blacked-out doors. Since then, Yura had let out a string of curses, and nervously checked his phone every 5 minutes; now he was relatively calm. Otabek raised his head and stared at the rising crescent over the dusky canal. He closed his eyes in silent prayer, hoping he would not have to dance tonight.

He had lied to Yura at yesterday's practice ― he had danced before, and was pathetically bad at it. With a grimace Otabek forced himself to look at the flashing neon sign above the doors. The icy wind stung his eyes. Otabek couldn't shake the image of himself at 5, surrounded by aunties and his mom, while a cassette tape played Kara Jorga, and failing miserably next to his older brother's flawless performance. Things went downhill from there. His prom date in middle school had laughed at him, when he placed his arms on her shoulders during the slow dance. At his brother's wedding 2 years ago, he ripped a tendon in the back of his leg while attempting to dance the Serpin together with his brothers and sisters in law. So what good could come of this?

"Hey, over here!"

Turning, Otabek spotted Mila, her fur trimmed coat off, beckon him to a back door. She sounded slightly out of breath, and the wind blew her red curls between her lips. Yet she was smiling.

Without a second thought Otabek grabbed Yura's wrist and strode to the back door.

Yura yelped. He tugged his hand free and glared. "Bek, what the fuck?"

Otabek lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. Wordlessly he inclined his head to the back door; Mila was still standing there, looking rather chilly with her long legs so exposed. The icy wind had turned her cheeks bright red.

"Baba! About fucking time." Yura stomped past him, disappearing inside the dark hallway.

When they were all inside, Mila quickly shut the door behind them. Otabek shivered and rubbed his palms together. It had to be at least ten degrees warmer here. The music was muted, to the point only faint sounds reached his ears. In the gray darkness he could just barely make out the shapes of Mila and Yura's bodies, and the subtle dent of Mila's nose and dimple of her cheeks as a stray neon light was caught between them.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

Mila laughed. "Sorry, couldn't come sooner." She winked. "I got side-tracked."

They followed Mila through a series of dark corridors, before she made a sharp turn and thrust a door open. Otabek had to shield his eyes from the light. Suddenly all his senses were on full alert, an overwhelming brightness washed over him. The music was loud. Real loud. Otabek could feel his ears ringing and his head pounding with the rashness of it, his heart thudded in his chest. He felt like his stomach had been ripped out of his body and tossed down a great flight of stairs. Vaguely he noticed Yura and Mila argue, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Overpowered by the pounding bass, he staggered off to the men's room, using the wall for support.

He shivered ― it was sub zero temperature in the john. The window was thrust wide open; one guy leaned against the glass, smoking. The guy drunkenly waved at Otabek.

"Come here for a man-to-man chat."

Otabek walked straight out the men's room. The noises assaulted his ears again. He gulped it down and did his best to remain calm.

"There you are. Finally. I've been looking all over for you." Yura's voice sounded coarse as he put a hand between Otabek's shoulders, and pushed him to the cloakroom.

They disposed of their jackets, Yura talking loudly over the music. Otabek merely nodded; this place tired him, with sleepy eyes he watched the crowd. There was Mila, she waved at them, the brilliant white of her teeth accentuated by the bright lipstick she wore. Otabek rubbed his hand: a cat's silhouette and letters spelling 'Kiska' had been printed on it. Walking further inside the club, Otabek saw fewer and fewer people. When they reached the dance floor where Mila stood at a bar, it was curiously empty. Some men hung around the edges of the room, leaning on barstools, sipping drinks. Nobody was dancing ― what a relief.

To be sure Otabek decided to check with Yura. "Where is everyone?" he said, but his words got swallowed by the music.

Otabek twisted his mouth. He didn't want to raise his voice. So instead he leaned up close to Yura and whispered in his ear, "Can you tell me where everyone is?"

Yura recoiled from him like a cat from the bathtub. His blond hair flashed green under the disco lights. Shoulders raised, Yura stomped off towards Mila without a word. The only thing left for Otabek to do was wearily follow, feet shuffling over the dance floor.

"Hey," he nodded at Mila, attempting a half-smile.

She pushed herself off the bar, stretching her arms out; one hand landed on Yura's shoulder, the other on Otabek's. When she winked and started chatting rapidly, her words too got swallowed by the sound, so Otabek leaned in closer to hear.

"...prefer? I'm fairly good at hip hop, but if you want to breakdance, Yuri's the master! So, what shall it be?"

Otabek shrugged. "Anything's fine." He didn't want to be here or learn any dance moves anyway; this was so unnecessary. As an afterthought he whispered in Mila's ear, "why are there so few people in here?"

"Kiska is a very exclusive club," one stray curl of Mila's hair gently brushed Otabek's cheek as she whispered in his ear. "They don't just let anyone in. You have to know people."

Yura shoved Mila's hand off his shoulder. "I'm going to get a drink," he barked at them.

Otabek winced; his ears stung. Why was Yura being this loud?

"Do you want one?" Yura screamed over the music.

Both Mila and Otabek shook their heads, and Yura was off.

"Okay, we'll start with basic hip hop moves." Mila took Otabek by the hand and led him to the dance floor.

The guys hanging around the sides of the room watched them move over the floor: they were the only ones on it. Otabek felt so foolish. He wanted to fall through the floor; _anything_ was better than being here. Mila stopped and smiled sweetly at him; she let his hand go.

"Listen up, this is the first move you'll learn. It's used in many different routines, including advanced ones, so pay attention."

Otabek nodded firmly; apart from the ringing headache and the searing pain in his ears, he was all attention.

"It's called the step touch, and goes something like this."

Mila pressed her legs together. She made a sidestep with her right foot, parting her legs. A beat later she moved her left foot to the right, joining both feet and pressing her legs together. Otabek repeated after her as well as he could. It felt kind of stupid. They moved like that for a while, to the right and to the left, opening and closing their legs.

"Very good Otabek, you're getting the hang of this."

He didn't quite feel like he was getting the hang of anything ― and what did that expression mean, exactly? Mila leaned in to whisper something again.

"Okay, now try to make your movements a bit less stiff, sway a little to the music."

She began waving her arms around enthusiastically. Otabek froze. He watched the guys that hung around the sides of the room: they were all drooling at Mila, and glaring at him. Fuck.

"Um, Mila," Otabek whispered into her ear, which made her stop shaking her ass ― thank god. "Can you show me another move? I think I got this."

"Oh, oh okay. I learned this move right after the step touch, it's real smooth, it's called happy feet!" She cracked a laugh at her own joke. "Or, well, some people call it the heel toe ― that's basically what it is: you put your weight on the heel of one foot and the toe of the other foot. Then you switch."

She demonstrated. It did look rather neat ― when she did it. When Otabek tried doing it however... it looked more like someone trying to murder a moving cockroach in their bathroom. Otabek simply wasn't getting it. And no matter how many small encouragements or nudges in the right direction Mila gave him, all he got was more exhausted. Otabek checked his watch: it was well past midnight. He groaned.

"Yes! Feel the music, let it move you."

He didn't want to disappoint Mila by telling her that the only thing he felt right now was dizziness from a lack of oxygen in the club ― she _was_ trying, after all. But he really wanted to stop. He weakly held Mila's hand; the room was spinning around him. In the haze of flashing lights he spotted Yura, plastic cup in hand, saunter over to them. Yura's head bobbed to the music; his movements were sluggish and languid, as though Otabek were watching a video of him played in slow motion.

Yura gazed back at him; then looked down at Otabek's feet, set his drink on the bar, and wacked his palm across his own face. Glaring through his fingers with an expression of pure agony, Yura yelled "You're doing it all wrong!" He turned on Mila. "What have you been teaching him?"

Mila put both hands on her hips. She raised her voice as well. The whole thing devolved into a shouting match between Mila and Yura. Otabek let out a long breath.

"Well excuse me, Mr. Know It All, this is how I learned hip hop."

Yura cursed at her in Russian. Mila cursed back. Otabek looked from one to the other, without comprehending a word of what was being said.

"Bek," Yura growled at him, "you put too much weight on your outer foot. Make lighter steps ― on your toes, like this."

Yura did a few step touches.

"He's doing the heel toe, Yuri, not the step touch."

Yura stopped dancing. He stared at Mila for awhile, eyes growing wider and wider.

"The _heel toe_? That looks nothing like the heel toe." Yura pointed at Otabek's feet. "Why are you teaching him advanced techniques when he hasn't learned the basics yet?"

Mila rolled her eyes. "I can't help it if Otabek is a faster student than you."

Yura flung himself at Mila like a wild tiger ready to pounce. But Mila easily side stepped, she even made a sort of dance out of it. One of the men lounging nearby came over and asked her in a low voice, "is this man bothering you?"

"Oh no," she laughed, "I'm perfectly fine, thank you!"

As a precaution the man remained at Mila's side. Yura's hands were twitching: he stood between Mila and Otabek, eyes flitting between them.

Otabek extended a hand toward Yura. The music was dying down, shifting from the fast and heavy to the welcome soft slow dance song. "Yur, are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine." Yura's eyes flashed with anger.

Otabek's arm dropped between them; stopped in motion, uncertain where to go. Yura was scowling at him; Otabek frowned ― apart from completely sucking at dancing, what had he done wrong? He wanted to make it right, but he didn't know how. He must have screwed up somewhere to have Yura react like this, but what had he done? Otabek fumbled through the dark corridors of his mind, lost, when Mila touched him on the shoulder. Otabek turned his head to look at her.

"This is my favorite song," she whispered, lips close to his jaw. "Come dance with me, this dance is easier ― I promise."

"Do what you want! I'm out of here," a very angry Yura shouted at the top of his lungs and stormed off.

Otabek blinked. He could see Yura's thin form haggardly stomp about in the dark; there was nothing graceful about it, when normally Yura was all grace. He looked... was he _drunk_? The dots began to connect in Otabek's mind: the drink, the irrational anger that seemed to come from nowhere, the loose-tongued gratuitous swearing that would have already alerted Otabek had it been anyone else.

"Come on, don't be shy." Mila tugged at his arm. Her eyebrows were arched coyly, lips turned up in a playful grin. Otabek couldn't help but smile back at her.

"Wait one sec," he said.

"Okay!"

Otabek lurched toward the bar where Yura's empty cup was still standing. He sniffed at it. And scrunched up his nose: it smelled. It positively reeked of strong liquor. Were the bartenders here insane?

"Yura is drunk," he announced, returning to Mila.

"What? No!" she stared at him, eyes wide and astonished.

"...Yeah,"

"The idiot!" She looked cross for a moment. Seconds later the anger was wiped clean off her face like a cloud passing over the sun. Now she just looked tired. She heaved a long arduous sigh. "Go after him," she told Otabek.

He blinked at her, then smiled; the smile turned to a grin. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What about our dance?"

Mila smiled back ravenously: "I'm trying to be a responsible adult."

Otabek burst out laughing.

"Go," she said, winking at him. "We'll have our dance later."

Having said his goodbyes, Otabek hurried to the illuminated exit sign. The icy air outside cooled his broiling headache down; he felt a lot better breathing in the crisp night air. The line to get inside club Kiska had only gotten longer. Bewildered, Otabek stared at them all with owlish eyes...what was wrong with those people? The blizzard had let up, although a howling wind still whooshed by every now and then. Tiny icicles were swept against and stung Otabek's shaved cheeks.

Then he saw Yura. Nearby a frozen drainpipe, Yura paced in circles. His jacket was thrown open, and he was not wearing his cap with earflaps. He was talking to himself. Good ― that meant he was not _that_ drunk yet. Otabek had feared to see him hurling or leaning against a wall. This was not so bad. He walked over to his friend.

"Let's get out of here."

Yura looked up. He seemed genuinely surprised to see Otabek.

"Did you get all your stuff?"

"Yeah," Yura grunted in a nasal voice.

Otabek could tell that Yura had left his earflap cap at the club, but Otabek did not bother to retrieve it. The last thing he wanted to do now was go back inside that hell hole. So instead he fell in step with Yura and said, "so, what did you order?"

"Huh?" another angered glare.

Otabek was skating on pretty thin ice here. Undeterred, he went on: "what sort of drinks did you have?"

"Oh." Yura stared straight ahead as they walked in silence. Otabek had already surmised that their conversation had ended, when Yura said "two whiskys and one martini."

What? The kid wasn't even sixteen yet. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dead serious."

How could his alcohol tolerance be so high? Otabek couldn't even drink that much in one night without doubling over. He stopped still in his tracks. "Yur,"

Yura walked on ahead of him.

"Yura!" he called out again.

Yura stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

The question was disarming, Otabek did not quite know what to say. I want to know how you're feeling? That did not sound quite right. I want to make sure you get home safely, without hurling or falling into a frozen canal along the way? Drat! What was he trying to say here?

"You should eat something," he meekly offered.

Yura snarled at him. "I'll eat when I'm hungry, now get off my back. We're going home, da?"

"Yes," he sighed deeply before catching up to Yura who had already resumed walking.

After waiting around for nearly twenty minutes at an unlit bus stop, they took a cab home. The whole ride, Yura did not speak a word; upon arrival he tossed some bills at the driver before Otabek could reach for his wallet, and quickly sprang out of the car. Otabek thanked the driver and got out of the car. He followed Yura through the yard; snow covered swings and a children's slide were hauntingly vacant as their feet crunched over the narrow path.

Otabek circled around Yura, stopping in front of him. "Hey, what's bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?"

Otabek shrugged. "You've been awfully quiet all the way here."

Yura snorted. He was smiling now but certainly did not look amused. "Why? What did you want me to talk about? How sexy Mila looks in her tight black dress, that it? Really, Otabek? I did not arrange this so you and Mila could go out on a date!"

Otabek was stunned. He watched in silence as Yura shouted and shouted, cheeks turning red, air escaping him in white puffs. Gesturing wildly with his ungloved hands, Yura tried regaining his breath.

"I only asked her if she knew any good clubs. And then she invited herself along. That bitch!" Yura spat on the ground.

A tense silence reigned over them as they walked inside the building, and later when they stood on opposite sides of the small 4 person elevator. Yura's apartment keys jangled in his shaking hands; both his nose and his ears were tainted pink. Not looking back at Otabek, he pushed the door open, and walked in first. Yura threw off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and marched inside the living room. Ending up at the center of the Turkish carpet, right under the crystal chandelier, his shoulders trembled like a single blade of grass under the assault of turbulent winds. Otabek sighed. He took his boots off slowly, disposed of his coat, picked up Yura's jacket and folded it neatly inside the built-in closet. Then he entered the room; the Turkish carpet felt warm under his socked feet. He checked the cuckoo clock: past 2 am, Yura's grandfather must have gone to bed. The apartment was eerily quiet save for the ticking of the clock and Yashka's faint mewling as he rubbed himself against Yura's legs.

Softly Otabek crossed the Turkish carpet to the other end of the room, and placed a record on the turntable. He raised the needle, and looked over his shoulder. It would probably be fine if he put the volume on low. He set the needle on the record. Faint soft harmonious tones started playing on the gramophone. Yashka quit mewling. Otabek turned around slowly to look at Yura. He swallowed thickly when their eyes met. The look Yura sent him was so intense; mixed with hurt, and anger, and a wild, animal ferociousness. Otabek took a step forward. The music went into another whirl ― somehow, listening to it, Otabek imagined a skater spin on the ice, hands raised up high in the air.

"Well, will you teach me how to dance, or not?"

Yura's shoulders dropped, he looked even smaller now, as he stared up at Otabek with those wide green blue eyes. Otabek didn't know what to do. The music played on, and in his peripheral vision he saw Yashka sneak off to the kitchen. Something in there did smell nice. Perhaps 2 am in the night was too late for taking dance classes, but Otabek knew that after the disaster at the club tonight, he had to calm Yura down somehow, and this seemed to be working.

Yura blinked at him. "Odd pick. You really want to dance to that?"

"How is it a strange choice?"

"Eugen Doga's piece _Waltz of Roses_?" Yura stared at him. "Are you kidding me? Why would you want to dance to that? Only nostalgic old grannies and lovesick teens dance waltzes."

Otabek shrugged. "It seemed like a good place to start." He looked over at the gramophone. The music was coming to an end.

A sigh. "Okay, I'll dance with you."

Surprised, Otabek turned his attention back to Yura.

Yura swiveled around him, stopped the gramophone, and shifted the needle back to the record's edge. The music began to play again. Yura moved closer.

"Place your left hand on my shoulder."

Otabek did as he was told. He felt Yura grab his right hand ― Yura's hand was so cold.

"I'm leading," Yura said sternly, brows furrowed, face up close to Otabek's.

It felt strangely intimate when Yura held his waist. Otabek peeked in the dark opening to the kitchen ― Yashka stared back at him ― two luminous eyes in the dark.

They moved through the living room. It was tough practice dancing in such a small room: they had to watch for all the furniture. But somehow they made it alright. Otabek found it strangely soothing ― no one was there to judge him. It was just him and Yura, them alone. And Otabek found he didn't have to do much with Yura in the lead, just go with the flow.

The only thing Otabek didn't like was that Yura would not look at him. Yura looked this way and that; his eyes scoured the living room in search of a free path to move, to avoid bumping into the furniture. He barely even looked at Otabek, and when Otabek spoke to him, Yura would look for a millisecond, then quickly look away. For some undefinable reason, Otabek didn't like that. He wanted Yura to look at him, only at him.

"Yur,"

Yura turned his head up. But his eyes were so focused, serious, the eyes of a soldier. The whole point of this soothing music and the calming rhythm of their motions was lost on him.

"Has anyone ever skated to this music before?"

Yura looked away. He swiveled Otabek around the dining table, narrowly avoiding certain collision with a Lomonosov porcelain vase filled with freshly picked white crocuses.

"What kind of a question is that?"

Otabek shrugged. Yura's hand had gotten warmer. "Seems like good music for a routine." Otabek stepped in time with Yura, finally sort of getting it ― his toes just barely brushed Yura's heel. "Every time I hear the violins, I imagine a skater spinning on the ice."

Yura grumbled. "Well duh ― you're at the rink every waking moment of your life. Your imagination is limited to skating."

"Could be."

"It's true." Yura's severe growl told Otabek there was no room for argument.

Otabek leaned backwards; Yura's arm caught him, pressing down the center of his spine. Their faces came close together; Otabek felt Yura's breath on his lips ― it still reeked of alcohol. Without warning, Yura spun him around. Otabek nearly lost his balance, nearly crashed into an antique dark wood bookcase, before Yura caught him, centimeters off the furniture, and led him to the other side of the room.

Yura froze. Wide eyed, slack-jawed, he gaped at something behind Otabek's back. Frowning, Otabek turned around to see.

He was a bit surprised to see Yura's grandfather already up and standing in the living room, close to the corridor. There was a gentle smile on Nikolai Plisetsky's face, and he looked at them both with a touch of pride.

"Oh, hello Mr. Plisetsky," Otabek started when it was clear Yura was not going to say anything.

Yura's grandfather beamed at him. "You can call me Kolya."

"Ah right... Kolya," Yura's grandfather had long since given Otabek permission to call him by name, but Otabek could not quite picture him as 'Kolya', so it never stuck. "Sorry for the noise, we didn't mean to wake you."

Kolya dismissively waved his hand. "I was already up."

"You were?" said Yura.

Kolya simply nodded. He put a finger to his lips and frowned a bit, smile widening, then fondly told them, "Yuratchka, you and Otabek look very good together. Why don't you skate together as a pair next season?"

Yura turned red in the face. His shoulders shuddered with rage. "Don't make fun of me Grandpa!"

Kolya's brows rose. "But I'm serious."

"What? How is that even ...? Listen, I'll explain it to you one last time: there are no male pairs in figure skating." Yura made an X with his arms. "The ISU would never have it. That's _too_ gay!"

A deafening silence followed ― the music had stopped playing.

"I haven't said anything about gays..." Kolya looked bewildered. "Do you understand what he means, Otabek?"

Yura groaned. Breathing hard and livid with anger, he stalked out the living room, down the corridor, and slammed his bedroom door in Otabek's face.

"Fuck this. I'm going to sleep."


	2. Yuratchka

**Yuratchka**

 _Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,  
We will stand by each other, however it blow.  
_― Simon Dach, Annie of Tharaw.

.

Yura pulled a face at his phone and took another photo of himself. Bending over his phone he started zealously typing something.

Otabek skated toward him. "Are you seriously going to upload that right now?"

Yura looked up at him. "Yeah."

Frowning, Otabek leaned over Yura's shoulder to read. He could tell Yura was getting better at taking selfies: Victor and Yuri Nikiforov were in the photo's background, making eyes at each other; and Yura had rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out, making a gagging motion with his hand. Underneath the photo, Yura had typed

rink #8amsharp #nikiforov_gay #gay_couple #faggots #nooneistraining #lazyjapanese.

He was in the middle of typing #get_off_the_ice_already_katsuki , when Otabek said

"Does it bother you that much?"

Yura turned around briskly. "Huh? What?"

Otabek didn't have to do more than raise his eyebrows meaningfully and glance at Victor and Yuri. Victor held Yuri's waist; Yuri ran his fingers through Victor's hair.

Yura glared. "Of course it does! You came all the way from Almaty to show him your routine, and all he's doing is playing with his new boytoy."

Otabek blinked; a warm feeling spread from his stomach to his toes, a comforting feeling, the unfamiliar feeling of being welcome. He twisted his lip, unsure of what to say. Yura pressed upload, and the image soared around the world, off to a server somewhere in the US.

Otabek pensively stared at Yura's phone. "You're not on VKontakte?"

Yura smiled up at him. "Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me!" He hastily pulled up another window and uploaded the same image to the Russian social networking site.

Otabek facepalmed.

"So, Otabek, when are you going to show us this new short program of yours?" a sing-song voice called out.

Otabek jerked around. Far off on the rink, Victor smiled gaily and waved.

Otabek set his jaw. He focused all his muscles, and, in complete control, he skated out onto the center of the rink. Picking up speed, he went in for his first jump ― triple axel ― nailed it. Otabek crossed the rink, scissoring his legs, folding his arms over his chest, he performed a butterfly spin ― landed it. Now for the most tricky part in the routine; he traveled the ice with a layback spin, arms arched overhead. When he reached the other end of the rink he doubled back, and, clenching his muscles he lifted off in a quadruple salchow ― good, now the other ― immediately after it, he did a triple toe loop. And botched the landing; one hand touched the ice. Otabek cringed. He wasn't satisfied with this combination yet. But that was OK, now came the easier part of the program, he could relax.

Hands on his waist, triple lutz ― easy. Now, a backward scratch spin; then, a cannonball spin in reverse to avoid getting dizzy. His back was bathed in sweat already, he was breathing hard. Two more jumps, but they weren't in succession, so he could manage. Quadruple flip ― awesome! ― followed by an illusion spin. He could do this, Otabek told himself, even as he was getting dizzy ― really, he had planned too many spins in this short program; perhaps he should cut a few out? He cringed ― concentrate! Now is not the time to design your routine. Stop thinking about it and _perform_! A serpentine step sequence, extend your arms up high in the air; Otabek bit his lip. The last jump in the program was coming up; this was going to be tricky... quadruple axel, the most difficult jump ever documented, right at the very end.

He could do this.

Otabek went in for the jump. He lifted off in the air, contracted his muscles tightly, and... it turned into a double axel. Damn it!

Fuck, remember your breathing, the program wasn't over yet. Defeated, he circled the rink ― head down, looking at his feet. Why? He knew the jump was difficult and overly ambitious, and even his coach had advised him against it; and yet... Otabek refused to cut this jump out of his short program, even though the odds were not in his favor. Because if he landed it, he would be the first in history to ever land a quad axel in competition.

He heard clapping. Victor was crossing over the ice toward him, followed by Yuri and Yura ― damn their names were so much alike. Otabek smiled.

"So, what do you think of it?" he said, spreading his arms and trying to regain control over his breath.

"Hmmm," Victor pressed a thumb to his mouth; he smiled cheerfully. "I don't like it."

Otabek blanched. "The last jump?"

"No, I like the jumps. It's what you're doing in between the jumps ―"

"Nothing," said Yura, arms crossed over his chest.

"― that I don't like. Yura don't interrupt me, I'm trying to have a serious conversation with Otabek here."

Yura scowled at Victor. Otabek nodded. He didn't really understand what Victor wanted from him, but he nodded anyway ― just to show respect.

Victor frowned, deep in thought, then added, "And to which music will you skate this routine?"

"Yann Tiersen's _Comptine d'un autre été_."

Victor's frown deepened; he stared at Otabek as a physician might look at a difficult patient. "I see." He fell silent after that.

Yuri stepped forward. Gently touching Victor's shoulder, he made eye contact with Otabek. "No offense, but it feels like it's missing something."

Victor snapped to attention. "Oh it's definitely missing something."

Otabek frowned. Okay... but what? What did they want from him? It was all so nebulous and unclear. Otabek preferred clarity ― when someone just came out and said precisely what he was doing wrong and what they wanted him to do differently. He looked at Yura for help. Yura smiled back at him; and eagerly launched into a series of explanations. The warm feeling in the pit of Otabek's stomach returned, here he was ― Yura understood him; understood exactly what he needed.

"I don't think there are enough artistic elements in your routine," said Yura. "You've got many spins in it, but to make a truly amazing program of this, I think you should add more small elements in between. Like," frowning, Yura stared up at the ceiling, "an Ina Bauer ― or something else: you name it, as long as it fits with the music and doesn't take too much effort to perform." Yura tilted his head. "Did you try to do another triple Axel at the end?"

"Yeah," Otabek lied.

"That's a nice way to end it ― as it began."

That had not been Otabek's intention; his short program was meant to show growth, improvement through imitation, a wink to the skaters from previous generations, who had mastered the triple axel, and then, then a demonstration of his own superior skill. But he smiled and nodded at Yura.

"I don't hear the music when you skate," Victor said seriously.

Yura grinned. "That's because there isn't any music. Viktor, we're at practice."

Completely ignoring Yura, Victor went on in his serious tone, "It looks like you're using Yann Tiersen's beautiful music as an excuse to show off your quads. There is no interpretation in this program ― I kept looking for it while you were skating ― I couldn't find it. You're either intentionally ignoring the music, which is a shame; or you're genuinely out of touch with it." Victor frowned. "Can you see what I mean?"

Cool as a cucumber, Otabek bobbed his head. He knew how to take criticism, knew that he needed it to improve, to grow, to win. He had no idea what Victor was talking about, but he could figure that out later.

"Really?" Victor beamed at him with a dazzling white smile. "Phat!"

Yura shook his head. "Viktor, _nobody_ uses Phat anymore."

Otabek frowned. "What does it mean?"

But before Victor could cheerfully explain, Yura cut him off. "You don't want to know."

Victor cocked his head to the right. "Okay, why don't you show us your new short program, Yura?"

"Tch, no problem." Yura kicked off the ice and launched into a Charlotte spiral.

Otabek smiled, he had already seen this short program; in fact it was the very first thing he saw upon arrival in St. Petersburg. Yura and his grandfather had picked him up from the airport on a cloudless crisp Sunday morning. On the way back, Yura had insisted they stop by the rink, to show their new routines. Yura's grandfather objected strongly and chastised Yura, suggesting Otabek might be tired from his long flight. But seeing the eager smile on Yura's face, Otabek quickly said he'd slept on the plane; even though during the entire flight he could not sleep a wink, still giddy with excitement from their last Skype talk which ended seconds before Otabek boarded the plane.

Yura's short program consisted of many explosive moves in rapid succession. It started out flashy; mazurka entry into a Charlotte spiral, Yura kept his head close to the ice, his other leg extended vertically up in an impressive split. Flying camel spin, followed by a shoot-the-duck, choctaw, and coming out nicely in a hydroblade. Yura rose to full height, steadily, making large sweeping motions with his arms. This program was choreographed by none other than Baranovskaya herself ― Yura had asked her to design a challenging program for him: something dynamic, filled with bursting moves that crackled with energy. This was the result, a breathtaking short program set to Niccolo Paganini's _La Campanella_. Backward twizzle turning into a triple lutz, triple flip, and a lunge. It looked so graceful when Yura did it, so peaceful. Despite the vigor and the driving force behind these motions, they all projected an inner calm, an inner peace that fascinated Otabek ― he could never skate like this. When Otabek skated, he couldn't stop worrying about his execution, about what the judges would think, about the score. He couldn't help but cringe at every single mistake he made, replaying it over and over again in his mind until it drove him insane. He could never skate like Yura; so graceful, so... at peace.

"Very nice," Victor called out from the edge of the rink.

Yura's short program was over. Otabek snapped his head back. Damn! He hadn't been paying attention. Now surely Yura will want to know what he'd thought of it ...what should he say? He glanced over at Yuri and Victor, but they were already sliding their skate guards on and getting ready to go.

Yura frowned as he approached them, his shoulders drooped. "Leaving already?" he said, staring incredulously at Victor.

"Word!" Victor winked. "Yuri and I have some _stuff_ to do."

Yura raised an eyebrow at him. " _Word_?"

"Yes, word!" Victor chirped back, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder.

"He means _'yes'_ ," Yuri shrugged, smiling uneasily.

A silence followed in which Yura just stood, watching them pack their bags and walk toward the glass doors. "Bye," he said slowly, voice hitching up at the end.

"Bye!" Yuri and Victor Katsuki cheered back in unision, pushing the glass doors open. And they were gone. Yura stared after them till they disappeared from sight completely.

" _Stuff_?" Yura muttered. "What _stuff_? What could possibly be more important than figure skating? If this is how Viktor intends to make his comeback, he's got another thing coming." Yura was seething; his back rippled with barely restrained anger. All the calmth, all the inner peace he'd projected minutes ago, was gone.

"You'll show him," Otabek said, placing his hand on Yura's shoulder.

Yura looked up, eyes wide, lips quivering. "I will?"

"Yes." Otabek didn't allow any of the hesitation he felt to shine through his words.

"Yakov says my jumps are under-rotated, most notably the quad Lutz." Yura heaved a deep sigh. "What do you think?"

There came the question Otabek had been dreading; he bit his lip. Damn it, he shouldn't have spaced out like that during Yura's routine! What should he tell him now? _Sorry, I didn't pay attention during your short program?_ That was worse than saying nothing at all. That meant Yura's program was too boring, too dull to watch. Damn it all to hell! He saw hope in Yura's eyes ― he didn't want to squash it.

"I think you should try the quad lutz," Otabek said, firmly, sounding considerably more confident than he felt.

"You think I can do it?"

"I think you definitely have the flexibility and the height to pull it off."

Yura grimaced. "That's another thing I'm worried about ― my height." He spread his arms out, smiling bitterly. "If I grow another inch over the summer, I won't be able to land the quadruple Lutz next season."

Otabek smiled wistfully with him. "How ironic ― most guys our age dream they were taller."

"Yeah," Yura laughed.

They laughed together, standing on the inner edges of their skates, leaning against each other, supporting each other's weight. Otabek wiped the tears off the corners of his eyes.

"Let's try something," he said, letting go of Yura; suddenly eager to do something, anything ― just to keep moving.

"Try what?"

Otabek grinned at him. "What your grandfather suggested last night."

"Huh?" Creases appeared between Yura's brows.

"Pair skating," Otabek said simply, lightly, like he was floating on air.

"Oh," Yura rolled his eyes. "Grandpa was obviously joking ― he does that sometimes."

"Really?" Otabek frowned. "To me it sounded like he actually meant it."

Yura threw his head back so his hair fell out of his face. "Oh what the hell, why not ― let's have a laugh." Grinning at Otabek, he grabbed his hand and tugged him along to the center of the rink.

Otabek laughed. "What are we doing?"

"Unision skating; come on ― keep up with me."

They traveled the ice side by side, performing some basic twizzles. Yura lifted off in a triple toe loop, Otabek repeated after him. After the landing Yura's leg remained up high in a basic arabesque spiral; Otabek followed, though his leg would not go higher than 45 degrees. He placed his arm on Yura's shoulder and together they glided over the ice.

"This _is_ fun," Yura admitted, laughing.

Yura's hair got swept in Otabek's face. To avoid getting a mouthful of hair, he squinted, and kept his lips close together when he talked.

"So," Otabek set his free leg down on the ice, decelerating. "Are we trying any lifts?"

Yura shrugged, stopping beside him. "If you want."

Otabek smirked, looking Yura up and down. "It seems fairly obvious who's doing the lifting."

"Shut up."

Otabek snorted. "Okay, I think a basic armpit hold lift?"

"Bo―ring." Yura placed his hands on his hips. "Let's do a star lift."

"But, ...isn't that a bit ambitious for a first try?"

Yura wagged a finger at him. "You've got to be ambitious or you'll never make it in this sport."

Otabek twisted his lip: he didn't want to drop Yura. For some reason, Yura seemed to have such great confidence in him; which unsettled Otabek rather than putting him at ease. They skated some distance apart, and halted facing each other.

"So, on three," Yura said, voice stern and his brows furrowed.

Otabek nodded.

"One,"

Yura bent his knees, preparing to kick off in a toe loop.

"two,"

Yura's right leg lifted off the ice.

"three!"

They skated toward each other, Yura going in for the aborted toe loop, Otabek sliding down low in a half-squat. The timing was miraculously good: Yura stood on his toe picks just as Otabek placed a hand on his hip. Otabek clasped Yura's right hand. A split second passed in nervous uncertainty as they made eye contact, and saw each other's hard-bitten faces. With force Otabek extended his arms, and to his great surprise, Yura went up high in the air, way over his head. They kept holding hands and staring at each other ― Yura from above, Otabek from below.

Otabek craned his neck up. He supported Yura by one hand only, the one on Yura's hip. He gazed up in stupefied wonder, seeing a thing he had never thought possible. Skating like this, they described a lazy curve on the rink. He felt Yura's free hand weigh down heavily on his right shoulder, but decided he didn't care about the pain. The strain on his shoulder only increased however. Otabek winced. He could manage, he could do this ― just a few seconds more, he told himself, a few seconds more.

His right arm began to shake. Yura wobbled, eyes widening. Shit, no! He would _not_ drop Yura, no way. Otabek pursed his lips, and clenched the muscles in his right arm. His arm stabilized, thankfully.

Yura sent him a quick look of concern.

Otabek grimly nodded at him ― it's okay, I can do this. Then he fell.

He did not quite know how it happened. Seconds later he was on his bum, and his right arm hurt like hell. The cold seeped into him; he lay in the slush that usually covered the rink after a few routines, his T shirt and his pants soaked up the icy water, making him shiver.

" _Bek!_ " was the last thing he heard right before hitting the ground, Yura's frantic voice calling for him.

Otabek cringed. He had let Yura down; what kind of a friend was he? He clenched his teeth. Damn it. He should have known this was a dumb idea, he was the older one! He was supposed to be the more responsible one. He squeezed his eyes shut. What had possessed him to suggest pair skating in the first place? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Okay, he had to get up now. Otabek opened his eyes and slowly crawled to a sitting position.

"Bek!"

He heard someone skate behind him. Otabek looked over his shoulder; it was Yura ― he was fine. A wide smile crept over Otabek's face, thank god, relief washed over him. He scratched his head as Yura came near. "What just happened?"

"You fell."

"Yeah, I noticed." He took the hand Yura offered him. "But, ...you... are okay?"

Yura pulled him off the ice. Shakily Otabek got to his feet; he patted the slush off his pants.

"I noticed you were careening backward right before the fall, and tried warning you, but it was already too late. I managed to jump though and landed a shaky single Salchow."

"That's good."

"Yeah, how is your ...arm?" said Yura, leaning closer and softly taking Otabek's right elbow between his fingers.

"Yuri!" a loud hard edged voice echoed over the stadium. They both knew what that meant: that voice could only belong to one person, and yes, soon enough Yakov's sweating face appeared at the edge of the rink. "Don't think you have the right to goof off while I'm training Mila!"

In the adjacent room there was a smaller rink, much more suited for figure skating. The boys had been left alone this morning on the wide expansive ice hockey rink where the ice was not that smooth, and told to occupy themselves. Without asking or receiving any request to do so, Victor had naturally assumed the position of impromptu 'coach'. That was two hours ago. The overhanging digital scoreboard informed Otabek that it was now 10:38.

"Otabek!"

Otabek snapped to attention.

"Your trainer asked me to keep an eye on you while you stay here," Yakov roared from the sidelines. He frowned, and simply glared at them for the longest time.

No one said anything and Otabek was unsure what he should do. He began crossing over the ice, but then Yakov shouted again ― Otabek braked and braced himself for more criticism.

"What were you two doing?"

An awkward silence filled the air as Yura bit his lip and exchanged a look with Otabek ― _tell_ him.

No, _you_ tell him.

Yura looked down at his own feet. Raising one leg he brushed some slush off his boot. In a low voice he muttered "pair skating..."

Yakov raised an eyebrow. " _Pair_ skating?"

"Yeah," said Otabek, skating back to the rink's edge. The entire right side of his body still hurt tremendously, since he had used mostly those muscle groups, and then fallen mainly on his right backside. He'd managed to break his fall, so nothing serious had been damaged ― just an ordinary training day; falling and getting back up again was part of it.

Yakov looked pensive for a moment; Yura joined them at the sidelines. All anger had left Yakov's voice when he spoke next; he looked them both in the eye till he had their undivided attention, and matter-of-factly said:

"Practice your lifts off the ice first; we can't risk either of you sustaining an injury with the Olympics right around the corner." Yakov looked around. "Where are Viktor and the other Yuri?"

Yura grinned. "They left early again today."

"What!" Yakov exploded in anger; nostrils flared and his face turning pink. "They're supposed to be here!"

The Cheshire grin on Yura's face only grew in size. Otabek shrugged ― it was not his business what Victor and Yuri chose to do with their time.

Yakov wiped his balding forehead. "Okay, Yuri ― wipe that smirk off your face! I want to see your short program. Now. Otabek, do some warm-up and be ready to show me your short program in fifteen minutes."

* * *

Snow fell in soft wet flakes on the window panes; it was not yet dark, but a pack of heavy clouds had gathered and concealed the sun, turning the entire sky into one gray glob from which snow kept falling, falling. Yuri lifted his head and dully stared out, then collapsed on his convertible sofa bed again. He typed a quick Tweet:

 _chilling at-home with Otabek_

The likes streamed in. Bored by it all, he tossed his phone aside and glanced to his right, where Otabek sat: his back propped up by a pillow pile, right leg under the blanket, and a hot water bottle tucked under his right armpit. Two wires extended from his ears to the front pocket of his hoodie, into which his hands disappeared. Otabek's eyes were closed and his face bore a placid, utterly relaxed expression. Yuri wondered what he was listening to. The earpiece closest to him had partly turned outward, it dangled in the shallow part of Otabek's ear, nearly falling out. Yuri crept closer on all fours, and sort of leaned in sideways so his ear came very close to Otabek's. Like this he could just overhear the vaguest gist of some melody; but it was not enough to tell what his friend was listening to.

Otabek opened his eyes. Yuri jumped back in alarm. "Uh, I was ...I was..."

"Wanna listen?" Otabek handed him the other earpiece.

Slowly, Yuri nodded, took the tiny thing in his hand and barely containing his excitement, stuck it in his ear.

Oh. It was just Otabek's routine music: bo―ring. Yuri picked up his phone again, checked his Instagram feed. One of his adoring fans had asked him about the chocolates. A smile the size of Siberia appeared on his face; he nudged Otabek with an elbow.

They exchanged a look ― 'sup?

Yuri shifted the box of chocolates toward him.

Otabek shook his head and closed his eyes again.

Yuri nudged him again.

They exchanged another look ― what is it, Yur? Let me visualize my short program in peace.

"Try them," Yuri said, "at least one. They are good."

"I don't like chocolate."

Yuri groaned. "Do you want me to force-feed you?"

"Okay, okay." Otabek reached inside the box and took one tin foil wrapped sweet out. He started nibbling at it.

Yuri rolled his eyes. He typed a quick message back:

 _Loved the chocolate, thnx!_

He tried to find a cat-shaped emoji to go along with it, but his fucking phone would not load the page. Yuri bounced his leg in annoyance; waiting for the graphics to configure. He gaped at it. No internet connection! The bars on his phone went down, they were dropping like crazy. Now he was only like on 2G or something. The fuck?

Otabek munched loudly. "They are good."

Flinging the earpiece off, Yuri jumped out of bed, walked over to where his laptop lay charging on the floor, pulled the plug out, and whipped it open. _Come on_ , his fingers drummed over the keyboard, _come on_ , he thought at his computer, willing it to start faster. And it did. Victory. Okay, now connect with the flat's wireless network... Yuri landed on his bed, breathing a sigh of relief ― it was just his phone. He should get a new one, fucking phone.

Leaning forward, Otabek tried to read what was on his screen. "Internet down again?"

"No, we're good."

Yuri quickly logged on to Instagram, and retyped his message ― in all his haste he had forgotten to Ctrl C it; now it was lost forever... Let's see, what had he wanted to say?

 _Thank you for the chocolates, they were very tasty!_

no ― too nerdy.

 _Thnx man!_

...what if his fan was not a man? Would girls get offended at being called _'man'_? How about _'bro'_? Yes, bro certainly sounded better. He started typing it when a sudden thought struck him. Erasing the message, he jumped out of bed again, and hauled his USB cable out. A few books fell from shelves and Yashka shrieked in the upheaval. Grinning, Yuri returned to his sofa bed. Otabek stared at him. Connecting his phone to his laptop, Yuri grabbed a handful of the heart-shaped chocolates, picked the nicest one ― the one still wrapped in bright red tin foil ― placed it over his own heart, and smiled at the camera. Click.

Yes, this was it! Now he just needed to tag it right ― much easier than composing a message that could so easily be misconstrued. So, ...tags, tags ...which tags should he use? Otabek read over his shoulder.

#valentinesday

No, that was no good ― too sappy. He was not sappy; he would not post some shit like this. Yuri erased the tag and tapped his bottom lip with his finger. Oh, right!

#thankyou #spasibo

He had to thank them ― that was only polite, after all. He had a reputation to uphold. Hmmm, what else? Ah, yes.

#formyfans

He didn't want people to think he was doing this for attention because he was lonely on Valentine's Day, or for some girlfriend ― blegh, none of that sickly sweet crap idiots did with heart emojis and duck faces.

#loveyou

That should do it. And with that he posted the photo. Satisfied, clasping his hands behind his head Yuri leaned back, smiling at the screen.

"You know you are only encouraging weird stalkerish behavior with this, right?"

Yuri squeezed his eyes shut. "Shut up."

"Okay, just so you know."

A howling wind rattled the window panes. Startled, Yashka stretched himself flat on the floor, ears down. Yuri shook his head ― silly cat ― and beckoned him over. Yashka glared back contemptuously. Sighing, Yuri unwrapped a chocolate and reached for the cat ― you can have one, but only one. Yashka ate the chocolate from Yuri's hand, then gazed up at him with large eyes, begging for more.

No you don't get more ― I am not mopping up your barf again. Yuri kicked the cat away.

Yashka returned. He climbed the bed, sniffing and pawing around for chocolates. Not finding any, he grumpily curled up in Otabek's lap; Otabek shifted the hot water bottle to make room for the cat.

Yuri scowled at Yashka ― oh so you don't like me anymore? He turned back to his laptop; some fans had replied with heart emojis ― that put a smile on Yuri's face ― others had reposted his recent photo. Yuri clicked through some links, curious to check out the profiles of his admirers. A bright yellow background flashed into view; this page was filled with photos of him. Ecstatic, Yuri scrolled down, down, down. The page froze; he bit his lip in annoyance. Why wouldn't it load? Ah, there. It was a photo of...

... JJ.

The fuck? With that phony smile of his, JJ grinned back at him from the screen; the top part of his face obscured by shiny red shutter glasses. Yuri crinkled his nose in disgust. Behind JJ, a wide tranquil sea stretched out, under a miraculously clear, reddening sky. JJ stood on a pier; his hand rested on a large, expensive looking yacht. Yuri clenched his fists. The caption underneath told him the photo had been posted 3 hours ago, and that JJ was presently vacationing in Brisbane, Australia. Yuri grinded his teeth. This made him angry, so angry, that jerks like JJ existed and got everything handed to them on a motherfucking platter, while he had to actually work for everything he got. It wasn't fair! Yuri glared daggers at his computer screen. JJ's phony smile mocked him all the way from Australia.

Yuri's lower lip shook in anger. "Xуй тебе в рожу!"

"Hm?" Otabek shifted on the bed. "Something the matter?"

Yuri turned his laptop around and pointed. Otabek frowned, leaning closer, then made slow deliberate nods in understanding.

"Oh, Leroy... yeah, I don't like him."

"Me either." Yuri gestured at the screen. "Fucker is in Australia right now, _enjoying_ his off-season."

"Good for him," Otabek grunted, turning away from the computer; Yashka shifted in his lap.

Yuri crossed his arms over his chest. "You said you trained in Canada?"

"Three years ago."

Covetingly Yuri stared at the yacht behind JJ: her well scrubbed deck, shiny gold railing, the beautiful cursive letters that spelled out her name ― Yuri angled his head to read ― the _Bella Santa_. JJ did not deserve a boat like that.

"And?" Yuri said as he clicked the window closed.

"And what?"

"Did you see JJ there?"

Otabek raised an eyebrow. "...he was my rinkmate?"

"Really. For how long?"

"Well over a year," Otabek sighed. "He's very handsy."

Yuri's jaw dropped. "Oh my God, did he _touch_ you?"

"Not like that." Otabek rolled his eyes, pulling the earphones out. "He's just overly familiar with everyone, always trying to man-hug you and putting his arm over your shoulder and calling you 'bro' and things like that."

Yuri nodded slowly, and logged out of Instagram ― he had seen enough for today. A frown formed between his brows, building until the creases actually started to ache; he rubbed at his forehead. The question formed at his lips, but he was unsure whether he wanted to go down this train of thought. He twisted his lip, then spoke up.

"Does he ever put his arm around female skaters?"

Otabek shook his head. "No ― only his girlfriend."

Yuri's eyes went wide; he couldn't help smiling. With a lopsided grin he looked at Otabek; his friend stared back blankly. Yuri snorted ― did he really have to point this out? Another thought hit him; he covered his mouth in the throes of laughter.

"Maybe he's gay!"

Yuri covered his mouth again, roaring with laughter. His eyes began to water and his cheeks heated up and he could not stop laughing, or flailing about on his bed. This was too good!

"That's―" Yuri started again, but couldn't say it. This was too good. This, this was gold! "That's why he calls himself GayGay!" Yuri looked up at Otabek. "Get it?"

"What? No," Otabek said, alarmed. "He has a _girl_ friend." He placed extra emphasis on the word _'girlfriend'_. Yashka stirred in his lap and mewled with an attitude.

Yuri sobered up a bit. He took a few deep breaths, lying on his back with his arms spread out, and his laptop still open between his legs. A wicked grin came to his face.

"She could be his beard."

Otabek didn't reply for awhile; he had this pensive look on his face, like the one Yuri always got while slogging through boring algebra assignments. "... JJ doesn't have a beard?"

Yuri blinked. "I mean figuratively."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind." Yuri stared up at the ceiling, with nothing much more to say or do. He felt exhausted ― a balloon, popped empty. The season was over yet still he was supposed to go to the Sport Champions Club every single morning, even on the weekends; his birthday was coming up, but nobody seemed to care about that. The only good thing in his life right now was that Otabek was staying over; somehow that made the gruelling practice so much easier to bear. He smiled up at his friend.

You give me life.

Yuri shook his head ― where had that thought come from? He chased it from his mind, washing his hands of it, getting rid of it. Don't be daft ― he'd been alive before he met Otabek, that didn't even make sense, what the fuck, what the serious fuck. Yuri cringed. He needed to think of something else to put this thought out of his head, for good. Anything, literally anything. He noticed his laptop screen ― it had gone black due to prolonged inactivity ― perhaps he should log in on Instagram again, ...yeah, that would keep him occupied. Yuri sat up and tapped the keyboard. When he logged in, the first thing in his feed was an InstaMessage from Viktor:

 _ **OMGwhatAman:** *because, ;-) thank you ahead of time Yura!_

...followed by another InstaMessage,

 _ **OMGwhatAman:** im asking becuz Yuri wants to know_

and another...

 _ **OMGwhatAman:** hey how did Yakov react at practice today? 0_0' is he mad at us?_

... Yuri facepalmed.

 _ **TheFinalCountdown:** I wouldn't know VIKTOR, why don't you ask him? You're welcome._

he typed back. Shutting his laptop, he looked at Otabek. Yashka had run off somewhere, and for some inane reason there was an actual algebra book in Otabek's hands ― correction: Yuri's algebra book. He must have picked it up off the floor where Yuri had chucked it last time in a mad fit of rage, but... when had Otabek stood up? Yuri hadn't noticed that.

"What are you doing?"

Otabek smiled at him. "I need to study too."

Yuri frowned. "Haven't you already learned that?" Weird ― this was like, 9th grade algebra. Hadn't Otabek graduated school already?

"Yeah," Otabek sent him a lopsided grin.

"So why..."

"Wanted to see what you were up to."

Yuri stood and ripped the book from his hands. Otabek laughed at him.

"I have an exam next week; it's not funny."

"I could tutor you."

"Yeah, right." He turned around and threw the book at the opposite wall, where it crashed against the wallpaper and fell with a dull smack. Otabek was still laughing. "Hey," Yuri said, turning back to him, "guess what the muppets are up to?"

"Who?" Otabek frowned.

Yuri rolled his eyes, "Viktor and Katsudon obviously."

Leaning back against the pillows, and smiling up at him, Otabek said: "Gossiping doesn't suit you, Yuratchka."

The words froze on Yuri's lips. He was supposed to be insulted, because that nickname was unmanly, and Otabek didn't have the right to call him that, only Grandpa could call him that ― it was a private thing. But, but it felt kind of nice. He smirked back at Otabek, and Otabek grinned back at him; then they both burst out laughing.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

The term "GayGay" was coined by **_Sudowoodo_** in their fanfic, _Are you going to become (boy)friends with me or not?_


	3. Scratch the Surface

**Scratch the Surface**

 _I wanna know. Am I losing my mind? Never let me go.  
_ ― Alan Walker, Alone.

.

Baranovskaya's impeccably waxed ballet floor gleamed under harsh morning light. They were alone in the ballet practice room, just him and Otabek, practicing their lifts. Yuri placed his right hand on the barre. Extending his left leg, he bent his right knee, and lifted his leg high above his head, reaching and catching his foot with his left hand.

"Okay ― now," he murmured, looking at Otabek through the mirror that lined the entire wall.

Taking small steps, Otabek approached him from behind. A moment later Yuri felt Otabek's hand close around his right waist.

"Like this, Yur?" his deep baritone rolled the Rs in a soft purr.

"A bit lower."

Otabek's hand slid down, trailing over Yuri's side, and stopped at the waistband of his dance pants; fingers gripping him tightly at the front, thumb digging into his hip at the back. Yuri nodded. The distance between them decreased as Otabek stepped forward so he could shoulder more of Yuri's weight. Looking in the mirror, Yuri saw their feet were only centimeters apart, and that Otabek's shirt was draped over his back; but he felt no pressure on his back. Cramped in the ballet slippers, Otabek's feet appeared to be smaller than usual, toes curled.

"Shall I ...?"

"Yes," Yuri said quickly, unthinking.

Otabek's other hand closed around his left leg. Fingers clamped his inner thigh, awfully, dreadfully close to his groin. Yuri felt his face turn red as a crab ― he dared not confirm this by checking in the mirror, because then Otabek was sure to see ― so, biting his lip, he turned his head down instead, to the floor. Calm down, _twatdang it_ , calm down. He took some deep breaths, trying to cool his face off; but it was not working. _Why_ wasn't it working? Yuri gulped. Well this was awkward. He couldn't face Otabek looking like this ― what would he think? ― much less talk to him. Блядь.

"This is so awkward," Otabek said.

Yuri looked over his shoulder. Otabek was blushing! What a relief, it was not just him ― he felt a bit better now, he felt normal.

Otabek tried to smile. "How do they do this?"

Yuri laughed. "Pair skaters?"

"Yeah," Otabek averted his eyes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and the tips of his ears had turned a tawny red.

"I'd only feel comfortable doing this with someone I was dating," Yuri muttered under his breath.

Otabek looked him in the eye, a soft expression had come to his face; Yuri smiled back at him.

"Some people do this with just about anyone," Otabek said, the corners of his mouth riding up in a sort-of smile.

Yuri frowned. "Are you one of them?"

Otabek frowned back, bushy brows gathering in a knot over his nose. "Do I seem like the type?"

Yuri looked away. "I don't know..."

He did not question the hand that still firmly held onto his hip, and the other that presently cupped his left buttock. He supposed it was right for Otabek to keep holding him ― after all, they had to practice their lifts. And, as embarrassing as it had felt at first, Yuri could grow used to this. It wasn't half as bad. He had enjoyed the dizzy weightlessness when Otabek lifted him off the ice; it had felt like flying ― so free. He wanted to feel that way again. Straining his neck to glance over his shoulder, Yuri smiled at Otabek.

Somebody's short dry cough alerted them to the presence of someone else in the room.

Yuri whipped his head around.

There, by the door, like a wallflower blending in with the violet draped curtains, stood Katsuki. The lenses of his thick nerd glasses had fogged up, and he openly stared at them, saying nothing at all.

Yuri scowled. "Am I wearing something of yours, Asshole?"

The moment those words tumbled out of his mouth, Otabek's hands released him like they'd been scalded.

"Um, I just wondered what you were doing," said Katsuki in a small boyish voice.

"It's none of your business what we're doing." Yuri was angry; a sizzling hot rage built within him, growing and rolling like tidal waves lapping against the confines of his throat, ready to spill his arsenal of profanities.

But Otabek laid a hand on his right shoulder. _Don't do it_ ― the hand seemed to say.

"Oh, uh ― okay then, I guess you're right." Katsuki slunk back timidly toward the door from whence he came. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Once again Yuri turned red in the face; he was shaking all over. His left leg dropped down to the floor with a loud smack. "There was nothing for you to interrupt in the first place!"

But the door had already closed; Katsuki could no longer hear him. He had just wasted energy ranting at the door for no reason. Yuri was fuming inside; but Otabek's hand remained on his shoulder, calmly, silently, patiently waiting.

* * *

Yuri took a deep breath and pushed off the ice. Kicking the ground, he launched himself into the air. Spinning, hair flying everywhere, narrowed eyes, hands pressed close to his chest: single rotation, double rotation, triple rotation, nearly... nearly there! Quadruple rotation, ...no. Losing balance, Yuri wobbled out of the curve ― crap. He landed on both feet: an ugly, sloppy landing. Exasperated, Yuri pulled at his own hair. That had been the 32nd failed quad Lutz today ― yes, he was counting them.

"Crap, popped it again."

He heard Otabek skate up to him. "That was not so bad," said his friend, looking thoughtfully at him. "At least you didn't fall this time."

Yuri watched Otabek through the gaps between his gloved fingers. "But it's not enough to compete."

Xватит пиздеть, when was he finally going to learn this jump? Why was it so damn hard? Viktor could do it, and Viktor was taller and heavier than him ― so why couldn't Yuri do it? What was he doing wrong? Yuri let out a huff of steam. When he looked up, Otabek's hand was stretched out to him. Yuri took it without a second thought.

Holding his hand, Otabek led him to the edge of the rink. Their feet criss-crossed over the ice in a fluid, practiced motion. Yuri smiled ― they had worked a lot on Otabek's grace elements. Knowing that his own actions had directly helped Otabek improve, brought a smile to Yuri's face and made him feel warm inside. His heartbeat sped up; he knew this feeling: joy, and excitement for what was to come. Reaching the end of the rink, they both turned sharply, let go of each others' hand, and skated away from each other ― in perfect synchrony. Skating along opposite sides of the small rink, they made mirrored motions with their arms, till they reached the rink's end. Out of breath, Otabek nearly collided with Yuri when they finished. Yuri laughed at him, catching him easily in a half-hug. He let his forehead drop on Otabek's shoulder, panting, waiting for his own breath to return to normal.

The door to the ice hockey rink moaned open, and Yakov's scathing voice was audible from the adjacent room:

"Stay here and practice that step sequence until I return!"

Yuri exchanged a look with Otabek. A moment later they heard Viktor's high pitched laugh. "Okey-dokey!"

"No running off. Do you hear me? Unplug those bananas from your ears ― you look ridiculous. Remain on this rink and practice your step sequence."

"But where would I go? What could possibly be more important than figure skating?"

Yuri facepalmed. He had no stamina for Viktor's silly antics this early in the morning. He removed his hands from Otabek's back ― Yakov was coming their way; his heavy footsteps thudded toward them, sending echoes through the empty stadium. Yuri couldn't tell exactly why he felt the need to hide that they had hugged, he just did. He wasn't ashamed or anything ― shame was for losers. No, that wasn't it. He just... he didn't want the personal moment he'd shared with Otabek to be ruined by an outsider's prying eyes; even if it was only Yakov, who didn't seem to care what they did, one way or another.

Moments later, Yakov's red perspiring face appeared at the edge of the rink. Yakov halted, grabbed the rink barrier firmly with both hands, and smiled.

Yuri jumped. The fuck? Yakov never smiled. When he did, it usually preceded painful consequences for all involved. Yuri would never forget the training session of February 13th, 2013 ― it had been burned into his memory as an inerasable stain. That day Yakov made them do bench presses and sit-ups and push-ups and leg raises until even Viktor collapsed on the floor in an unflattering heap, had to be lifted and carried away. Yuri was sore for weeks afterward. Most memorable was Yakov's massive smile right before training started. Only years later, while staying at Lilia's to prepare for his Senior debut, did Yuri realize that the _Training from Hell_ must have occurred right after Lilia dumped Yakov the day before Valentine's Day.

"Good news!" Yakov announced. "We're sending both of you to the 2018 Olympics, as a pair team."

Yuri's mouth fell open. He stole a furtive glance at Otabek ― Otabek eyeballed Yakov as though Yakov were a foreign object from outer space.

"But that's..." Yuri began, talking slowly and making measured gestures with his hands, as he did when forced to communicate with his 6-year-old cousin Tema from Moscow. "...not even possible. Did you notice we're _both_ guys? The ISU would never stand for it, let alone the FFKK."

Yakov waved his hand. "I spoke to the ISU."

What?

Yakov continued. "Not to worry, everything's been taken care of. All you need to do is focus on your training and pass the qualifying rounds. The ISU won't give you any trouble ― they've considered allowing similar pairs for quite some years now ― and neither will the FFKK," Yakov nodded grimly. "I've exchanged some pretty harsh words with them."

The fuck was going on here? Some sort of practical joke, like ChebuRussiaTV? Yuri began looking around for hidden cameras.

Otabek raised an eyebrow. "But we're from different countries," he said to Yakov. "How did you persuade the Olympic Committee to let me skate for Russia?"

Yakov's smile only grew in size, till it stretched across his entire face, ear to ear. Now it was genuinely scaring the crap out of Yuri.

Yakov waved his hand once more. "You will be skating for Kazakhstan!" Yakov said, gleaming with mirth.

"But―" Yuri choked out, before he could stop himself. He didn't want to skate for Kazakhstan. He wanted to skate for Russia, his own country. Skating for Kazakhstan just felt... weird. Now both Otabek and Yakov were looking at him ― great ― Otabek with a glum expression and lowered brows; Yakov with a face that basically said _'tee-hee'_. And the worst thing was, Yuri couldn't spot any cameras. Fuck ― this was real? It felt like a really bad dream, or one of those disgusting real person fictions.

"And you, Yuratchka, will be skating for Russia," said Yakov.

"Don't call me that!" Yuri yelled before he could fully grasp what Yakov had said. "Wait, what?" His mouth fell open again. Damn it, old man, _be more clear about things_!

Yakov nodded at them. "I spoke to your coach, Otabek ― he okayed my decision. Russia and Kazakhstan will be sending a joint figure skating pair to the Olympics this time." Yakov chuckled briefly. "That is, if you can pass the qualifying rounds for both countries. The competition is fierce, so we'll have a lot to work on in the upcoming months."

Otabek nodded.

Oh. Deflated, Yuri stared at the ice between his feet. This wasn't as bad as he'd imagined, ...but still. He pouted. Something within him itched to say something, to stop this. This wasn't what he wanted: more pointless training, more bruised shins, strained hamstrings. Pair skating with Otabek had been fun, just for laughs; he didn't want to spoil it with competition. This was their private thing they did between practice ― he didn't want it judged by an official team of judges. He couldn't stomach the idea of losing to another pair team ― the thought made him sick.

Keeping his voice under control, Yuri looked Yakov in the eye and said,

"I'd rather focus on my individual program instead."

Yuri turned sharply and accelerated on the ice, faster, faster ― till all thoughts of pair skating and Otabek had been banished from his mind.

* * *

Yuri let his head fall in his hands, elbows resting on the desk. Letters and numbers swam before his eyes in an indecipherable ocean of notes. Why why why why why was Otabek so hellbent on tutoring him in algebra? Yuri let out a keening groan.

"Do you understand why there must always be two values for the unknown variable?"

Yuri shook his head. Sitting beside him on another chair at his desk, Otabek held a black ballpoint in his hand, and used it to point at Yuri's algebra book ― the pen's tip left black blotches on the page. Yuri _did_ like _that_.

"All squares are positive," Otabek said in his steady voice, words flowing like a lullaby.

Having spent this entire morning training his butt off at the Sport Champions Club, Yuri didn't mind getting some sleep. His eyelids began to droop.

"But you can compose squares out of negative numbers as well, because of the _'minus by minus equals plus'_ rule."

Some pleasant minutes passed in peaceful silence. Yuri smiled; cradling his head on his arm, he let the wonderful sensation of sleep overtake him.

"Yur, if you're tired we can do this another time."

Yuri sat up straight. "I'm not tired."

"Really..."

"Really." Gritting his teeth, Yuri picked his pencil up and trained his eyes on the book.

Otabek shook his head. "I'm tired of teaching you the same thing over and over again."

Yuri glared at him. "Are you calling me dumb?"

"No," Otabek sighed. "You're very intelligent Yura, you just don't put your mind to good use. Come on, let's take a break." He stood up and made for the door, waiting for Yuri to follow.

A humid doughy smell hung around the kitchen ― Grandpa was baking pirozhki! With the oven at full capacity, it was quite warm inside the kitchen; one single window had been left open, welcoming the rhythmic sound of falling rain. Some drops would splash against the pane, and fall inside, trickling down the glass to the windowsill. Yashka, who sat atop the kitchen table, licking an emptied bowl of meatloaf clean, wailed every time a raindrop hit him.

"Ah good, you're here. Have a seat!" Shooing Yashka off the table, Grandpa ushered them to the stools cramped in the tiny space between the counter and table.

Otabek sat down, folding his hands in his lap. Yuri side-stepped around Grandpa, took the emptied meatloaf bowl, and rinsed it in the sink.

"Oh Yuratchka, you don't have to do that. Come, eat!" Grandpa winked, heaving a plate laden with steaming pirozhki. "I bet you're hungry after all that studying."

With a sigh Yuri sank down on a stool by the window, across the table from Otabek. Grandpa set the plate down on the table, spread his arms out and nodded at them. Yuri took a pirozhok and bit into it ― hmm, braised cabbage filling.

Taking one pirozhok off the pile, Otabek looked up at Grandpa and said, "Thank you, Mr. Plisetsky."

Grandpa pulled out another small stool from a cupboard and sat down as well. "Kolya," he said, smiling.

Speaking with his mouth full of pirozhki, Otabek quickly added, "Thank you, Kolya."

They ate in companionable silence; the rain pitter pattering over the street outside, cold wind beating against Yuri's face since he sat closest to the open window.

Grandpa took a sip of his tea. "How's algebra going?"

Oh Lord, the dreaded question. Yuri pursed his lip; he didn't even want to _think_ about algebra. Before he could say anything however, Otabek had answered the question for him.

"Good." Otabek smiled broadly.

What? Haven't you called me a hopeless nitwit not half an hour ago?

Otabek just looked at him from across the table. The look seemed to say: _Yes_ , but your grandfather doesn't need to know.

Astonished, Yuri gaped at Otabek. He didn't want to lie to Grandpa. None of this was necessary?

"Yura might actually pass algebra this year," Otabek continued with an amused small smile.

With a furious glare, Yuri kicked Otabek under the table. But Otabek started laughing! Bastard.

Crossing his arms defiantly, Yuri raised his chin. "If you're so clever, why aren't you in college?"

The laughter died on Otabek's lips. There, that was better. Satisfied, Yuri leaned back on his stool and knocked back a glass of Pepsi.

Otabek gazed at him in full earnest, his face seemed to say: _You're right._

 _Well_? Got anything to say to that?

When Otabek spoke next, his voice was soft, and his deep black eyes did not leave Yuri's.

"Because you only live once, Yur. I want to do something meaningful with my life, not tear myself to pieces wishing I had made better choices."

Something tremored inside Yuri's stomach; which was strange, since he had already eaten so there was no way he could be hungry. He uncrossed his arms and let them lie helplessly in his lap. He was still staring at Otabek's eyes, at his placid brows, at his nose, when Grandpa said,

"I wish I'd been so wise at your age."

Otabek ducked his head, and quickly mumbled something incoherent that tapered off at the end ― then he fell silent.

 _Huh_? Yuri frowned; what had just happened? He leaned forward, over the table, looking from Otabek to Grandpa to Otabek. Why was Otabek being so quiet all of a sudden, and why did Grandpa have this mysterious Mona Lisa smile stuck on his face? _Huh_?

* * *

Trainers slushing through streaming mud, Yuri huffed, sending strands of hair out of his eyes. It only rained harder. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, and ducked his head, squinting from under the brim of his drenched hood as he crossed the street. The wetness seeped into the clothes he wore underneath his jacket. He was drenched from top to toe; mouth pulled tight in a sullen scowl. His stomach rumbled. Cold rain poured down mercilessly on his shivering shoulders.

"Полный пиздец!" he cried out, kicking a drifting Baltika beer can down the street. "Got this ебаний exam for a birthday gift."

He winced, walking faster he crossed the vacant yard; feet ankle-deep in brown sleet that looked like shit. He came to a sudden stop at the door, grabbed for his keys ― nothing. _Dammit!_ His fingers frantically searched his jacket pocket, only to find... a hole. He grabbed his jacket at the front and shook it violently. Thank God ― he heard keys jangling. Yuri heaved a deep sigh, unzipped his jacket, and rolled the sticky wet thing off his shoulders. Rain fell in spades on his neck and unprotected arms as he grit his teeth against the wind, and shook and squeezed his jacket until the keys finally tumbled out and clattered to the ground. Yuri picked his keys off the soggy concrete and forced them inside the lock, twisting and turning and... jamming them. _Aargh!_ Finally he pried the heavy iron door open, ran inside, and threw it shut with a bang that sent echoes up the stairwell.

It was warmer inside the building. Yuri rubbed his arms as he waited for the elevator. Minutes passed. He frowned, pressed the button for the lift again ― nothing happened. Yuri groaned. _Don't tell me the elevator's out of order again._ He stomped upstairs. He made it all the way up to the fifth floor, gasping for air, hands resting on his knees and hair in his eyes, when he heard the elevator 'ding'. Yuri turned. The elevator doors swung open. Yuri glared at his own reflection in the elevator's scratched mirror. He swung his fist.

" _Будь проклят лифт поганый_!"

The elevator doors closed, leaving Yuri standing there all alone on the fifth floor landing. Dipping his head, he sauntered off to his flat.

"I'm home!"

The keys rattled in his hand as he rubbed his trainers on a rag. That was the only sound he heard ― the flat was eerily quiet. Yuri frowned. Could Grandpa be at the store? He hadn't seen Otabek all day with this stupid exam first thing in the morning. But practice should be over by now... right? He checked his phone ― 13:58, no messages, no missed calls ― nothing.

His soaked jacket dropped to the floor and he shivered. He was alone on his birthday in a cold dreary apartment with the curtains drawn and the lights off. His shoulders sagged, he looked down at the puddles that formed beneath his feet.

Yuri bit his lip. He would not cry ― this was pointless, and stupid, and childish. Who cares about birthdays anyway? Growing another year closer to the day he'd die was nothing worth celebrating. Besides, Otabek would be home soon ― he was just stuck in traffic. Yes, traffic was such a pain: Piter's rush hour seemed to last all day. That was it. That's why Otabek wasn't home yet. And Grandpa needed to have a word with his cashiers, make sure none of them stole from the till ― the store won't run itself. They had not forgotten about his birthday; they couldn't have ...right?

A dull thud in the kitchen, followed by quick pitter-patter, before Yashka's sleepy head peered around the corner. Yuri's face lit up; he squatted down and held out his arms. Yashka stared at him.

"Come here pal," Yuri found himself saying in a soft cooing voice.

Yashka stealthily crept over the linoleum floor, till he was within grabbing distance. He sniffed at Yuri's fingers. Yuri patted the cat on the head, ruffling Yashka's white and blue fur.

"At least you still enjoy spending time with me."

Figuring out Yuri's hands were quite empty, Yashka tossed his head back with a curt snort and walked away, wagging his bushy tail after him. In silence, Yuri got to his feet. He hung his head, observing the dripping mess he'd made of the floor ― he should mop it up. No sooner had that thought struck him, than he heard a deep male voice from the living room:

"This is too cruel, I won't stand for it."

Frowning, Yuri turned his head to where the voice came from ― he knew this voice! It had to be Georgi's. But why...?

The curtain moved. It was pushed aside, and there stood Georgi ― in Yuri's apartment, in his living room. Yuri stared at him.

Georgi was weeping; he smiled through the tears in his eyes, and cried "Happy Birthday, Yuri!"

What?

"How did you even get inside my apartment?" Yuri said in an uneven voice. He knew Georgi was a creep, but not that much of a creep.

"Ugh," someone groaned in the kitchen.

Yuri quickly turned, senses on full alert. There were _more?_

"Gosha, you _ruined_ the surprise. You were supposed to wait for the cue." Mila. That was Mila's voice. Mila was in his kitchen, but... but why?

"Please call me Georgi."

Mila walked out the kitchen, wearing a shimmering top and a tight leather miniskirt. Her hair was done up, her lips a glossy red, and coral eyeshadow had been applied in great quantities which made her look like a huge raccoon.

"Yura!" she met his questioning gaze and smiled. "Happy birthday!"

Georgi's new girlfriend Alina appeared behind her. Alina's dark blonde hair was brushed over her shoulder, and she looked fresh and sweet in her off-shoulder blue ruffle dress, showing a lot of skin. She gave Yuri a sunny smile. "Congratulations on turning sixteen, Yuri."

What's this supposed to mean? Why are they all here? Who the fuck let them in?

Something creaked behind him. Yuri whirled around.

Otabek had one foot out of the built-in closet when he locked eyes with Yuri, and stiffly raised a hand. "Здарова."

Yuri's jaw dropped. Openly staring at Otabek, he stammered: "You... set this all up?"

"We did," a sing-song voice sang from the living room.

The cotton tablecloth lifted, and Viktor and Katsuki's glowing faces emerged from under the table. The top buttons of Viktor's shirt were undone, and Katuki's sweatshirt had been pulled down, completely exposing his left shoulder. Katsuki's ruffled hair stood up at odd angles; his forehead wet with sweat, he panted like after a long skating routine.

Yuri's fingers twitched ― he was going to kill them. "What were you doing under the table?" He pointed an accusatory finger at Viktor's face. "I _eat_ there!"

"Nothing!" Katsuki squeaked a bit too soon, whilst pulling his shirt back on over his shoulder and adjusting his glasses. It didn't help that he was blushing like crazy, and had _guilty_ written all over his face.

Yuri rolled his eyes ― they were _so_ obvious. Katsuki and Viktor scrambled out from under the table and rose to their feet. Viktor didn't bother to button his shirt: some pale chest hairs stuck out, exactly at Yuri's eye level. Embarrassed for Viktor's sake, Yuri looked away. He noticed Otabek had come to stand by his side.

Viktor produced a tin flask from his shirt and smugly pointed at it. "You want?" he said, holding the flask out to Yuri.

Taking the flask in hand, Yuri held it at an arm's length, eyeballing it. He took a little sip ― it tasted horrid ― a bitter liquid scorched his tongue. He winced, and Viktor laughed. Yuri passed the flask on to Otabek. How on earth could Viktor _enjoy_ this gasoline? Stoically taking a draught from the flask, Otabek passed it on to Mila ― who smiled at him, her eyes lingering a tad too long on Otabek's jaw. Yuri sent her a dirty look.

"Hey," Katsuki half-whispered to Viktor, but Yuri overheard. "Should Yurio be drinking?"

"Aww, it's just a little schnapps," Viktor tipsily sang back. "He's sixteen, it's dandy."

"Oh, um." Katsuki took the flask back from Georgi and hid it away. Alina had cuddled up to her boyfriend, and Georgi had his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

They all jumped when Yakov's tired voice rasped "Oh, what the Hell," from the living room. The curtain moved, before Yakov grumpily rumbled over to the corridor, and heaving a woeful sigh clapped Yuri on the shoulder, with the words:

"Happy birthday kid, congratulations on being one year closer to death."

Yuri's mouth fell open.

"But Mr. Feltsman," Alina gasped. "You shouldn't be so negative! It's bad for your health."

Yakov grumbled something unintelligible in reply. That was when the toilet door barged open, and Grandpa walked out.

"Sorry, have I missed the cue?" Grandpa smiled, looking each of the guests in the eye. "Yuratchka," he said warmly, walking towards him.

Yuri smiled; it didn't matter if they all heard his silly nickname, even if Mila was bound to tease him about it for months; he didn't care. All that counted was that Grandpa and Otabek were here, that they hadn't forgotten ― that they cared. Yuri felt so happy he could cry. He stepped forward to hug Grandpa, when Grandpa abruptly stopped.

"Oh Yuratchka, you're completely soaked!" Grandpa's fingers shook, his open arms halted in mid-air, and his face faltered. "I didn't realize the downpour was so bad..."

"I'm good," Yuri nodded, smiling brightly. Nothing now could dampen his mood.

Grandpa shook his head slowly. "Go change," he said with a worried frown. "Your party can wait."

Otabek nodded.

With a bashful smile Yuri agreed. Shivering, he stumbled toward his room when a cold draft blew against his legs; he turned to see the balcony door open. Lilia walked in, shaking the raindrops off her frilly black pagoda umbrella. Her pointy stilettoes left dark stains on the carpet as she strode toward the corridor, head high, and with a pinched expression she declared:

"My felicitations, Plisetsky."

She held out a damp envelope, which Yuri took. It contained a voucher for sharpening skate blades.

"I wish you a triumphant skating season this year. Squash the competition and bring home the gold, make your country proud."

Yuri stared at her, clutching the voucher in his hand, not knowing what to say. "Thank you?"

Lilia's hair had been pulled back and pinned in a tight bun on top of her head; the bun hardly moved when she rotated her long emaciated neck. "Can I go now?" she said to no-one in particular, tying her black knee-length trench coat at the waist.

"But my venerable Baranovskaya, at least stay for the cake?" Grandpa said, inclining his head toward the kitchen.

 _Cake?_ Yuri smiled, hands giddy and saliva gathering in his mouth. They had cake! Cake. What kind of cake could it be? Could they have ordered from Vladimir Sizov's cake workshop? No, don't get your hopes up, that's far too expensive. How on earth would Grandpa afford that? It was probably just a cake from Grandpa's store ― those were okay too. But now Yuri desperately wanted to know! He shut his eyes and breathed in deeply, concentrating. If he could smell the cake then maybe he'd know.

"I'm not eating that," Lilia's stark voice pierced the air. "That's pure cholesterol."

Unable to smell the cake, Yuri opened his eyes... he'd have to wait and see.

Grandpa smiled with a shrug of his right shoulder. "We're still happy you came."

Lilia nodded. "The delight is all mine. I've had a lovely afternoon, thank you Nikolai, but now I really must depart."

Yakov stepped forward. "I will see you off." He reached for Lilia's purse, but she wouldn't let him have it. Lilia hurried to the flat door, Yakov ran after her.

"Oy Yuri!" Yakov called over his shoulder, hastily pulling on his boots. "Your present is under the dining table. Get rid of your old skates ― you'll only harm yourself trying to skate on that crap. Two weeks ago I considered buying you new ones, but Lilia convinced me to wait until your birthday." With a grim nod and a tip of his fedora, Yakov held the door open for Lilia.

Lilia's voice echoed through the stairwell. "I don't need you seeing me off."

Yakov's reply was faint, but they heard him well enough inside the flat. "Shhh, I also wanna get the hell out of here."

"We are _not_ taking the same cab!"

Shaking his head at them, Yuri went to his room, hung his wet clothes over the radiator, and changed into his favorite Tiger T-shirt ― the one from Hasetsu. Despite having been washed over a zillion times since then, the orange tiger face had not lost its vibrant color and still stood out proudly against the black background. Yuri grinned at himself in the mirror. Yeah, that's what I call an awesome outfit. He tugged on a pair of white fade-to-blue skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees, and stuck his numb feet in snow leopard print socks. Giving himself a once-over in the mirror, he brushed his hair out his eyes, and smiled. Yuri was certain he now looked absolutely stunning.

A beep. He checked his phone: the customary text from Mom. Yuri deleted it without opening the message ― what that woman had to say to him had ceased being important years ago.

The party was in full swing when he entered the living room. The curtains had been parted, the chandelier sparkled with tiny electric lights, and the dining table was set: glasses and plates and bottles of all kinds of soda, and then there was... the cake! Yuri gaped at it ― it was chocolate. Chocolate! He felt drawn to the cake. Legs shaking, hands trembling he walked toward the table, when Viktor stepped in his way.

"Presents first," Viktor chirped, firmly grabbing Yuri's right shoulder.

Yuri's mouth opened in protest; but fell silent when he saw Otabek carry two stools from the kitchen. Otabek set the stools down, so that together with the high backed chairs, they formed a semi-circle about the sofa ― now laden with a mountain of sparkly colored boxes. Feeling slight but certain pressure on his shoulder, Yuri let Viktor steer him to the sofa. Like in a dream he plopped down. Grandpa, Georgi and Katsuki seated themselves on the high backed chairs; Alina sat in Georgi's lap, Otabek and Mila chose the stools, and Viktor sat down on the sofa beside Yuri.

"Oh, oh! Can I go first?" Mila took one small square-shaped lavender parcel off the pile, and handed it to Yuri.

Yuri ripped the paper to shreds: it was a CD. The cover was a mix of neon pinks and violets, with the words _New Music 17 - MP3 CD_ printed on it in dripping white paint font.

"It's Pasha's new breakdance remix," Mila helpfully supplied. "Thought you might like it."

Yuri turned the CD around to look at the track list. He frowned ― all these were old songs. What was Pasha on, trying to sell these off as his own? What a lazy sack of shit. Most of this music was 30 years old or something.

Yuri gave Mila a long hard stare. "You're just trying to promote your boyfriend's shitty music."

"Pasha is _not_ my boyfriend!" Mila anxiously glanced at Otabek. "We're just friends."

Yuri huffed. "Yeah, right." He nodded at Otabek. "Pasha is the DJ of that club we went to."

Otabek's brows shot up in surprise; but other than that, his expression didn't change. Mila's cheeks turned a scorching crimson, which showed through the layers of foundation on her face.

"Aiight, aiight," Viktor said, raising his hands. "Why don't we move on to the next one?" He turned to Alina and Georgi with a pleading look in his eye. "Georgi, would you like to start?"

Georgi nodded. Leaning forward eagerly, he shifted Alina in his lap and rummaged through the pile, then handed Yuri a large sparkling emerald box tied with a silver string. He smiled up at Alina, nestling his head on her shoulder. "This is from us both," he said.

Cautiously Yuri set the box in his lap and pried it open, hoping this gift would be better than the last. He tugged at the silver string, flapped the sparkly green paper open, and saw... an electric rotary shaver. Yuri stared. He had to say something ― everyone was watching him ― but what?

Yuri smiled faintly, looking into Alina and Georgi's expectant faces. "It's ...very... nice?"

Georgi beamed at him. "Every man should have his own electric shaver. It's what makes a man, a _Man_."

"That's a nice thought, Georgi," Yuri shifted uneasily on the sofa. "...but I don't even shave yet?"

Georgi grinned at him reassuringly. "Soon you _will_!"

Yuri made himself smile back, but it felt more like an uncomfortable cringe. A rather large cardboard box was poking him in the side; setting Georgi's gift down, he turned to the cause of his discomfort. This box wasn't gift wrapped; it proudly declared the firm's logo which Yuri recognized as the large sports shop where they purchased all their skating equipment. Skates ― his shoe size, unbroken seal with the price tag still on it, receipt in the box ― were obviously from Yakov. Yuri tried the skates on; they were a perfect fit. Guess I won't be needing this then ― he thought, crumpling the receipt in his hand.

Looking up, he noticed Georgi had moved on to the table, and was cutting the cake up in slices, portioning them out on plates. Yuri gazed longingly at the creamy slices of chocolate cake, licking his lips. His tummy grumbled with unsatisfied want.

"Hey Yura, you got more presents there waiting for you," Viktor said in the grating high-pitched voice of a popular cartoon character, while pointing at the shiny boxes sprawled out on the sofa.

With a groan Yuri pulled a baby blue parcel into his lap, just as Georgi started passing around the plates. Yuri yanked the white rose ribbon off and tore the sky blue paper, to reveal... a box. He opened the box. There was another, smaller blue parcel looking at him. Frowning, he tore the paper again, hurling the white rose ribbon over his shoulder. Another box. Yuri began to see a pattern... Opening the box, he found a tiny blue parcel no larger than a phone ― maybe it _was_ a phone? Hands shaking he tore the paper off, but found another box instead, this one was really really tiny. He lifted the lid. A cat shaped note stared at him, penned in pretty feminine handwriting, in English; Yuri took it out and read it:

 _Check the black parcel_ , the note said.

Yuri raised an eyebrow, but complied. Minutes later he had torn the black parcel to shreds, and gone through a series of boxes, only to find another cat shaped note at the end, written in the same girly handwriting. It said:

Look inside the mint green parcel.

Yuri rolled his eyes. "I bet that one's empty too, isn't it?"

Viktor shrugged, talking between mouthfuls of cake: "You never know until you try."

Yuri let out a groan, tossing his head back. With great reluctance he pulled the mint green parcel into his lap and began the slow process of going through layers and layers of cute frilly wrapping. Everyone around him was eating cake; a wonderful chocolate scent permeated the air. Tearing through yet another layer, his hand stopped when it brushed against something round and solid. He felt around the edges, ran his fingers over sleek material: no way, maybe it actually _was_ a phone? Eagerly he ripped the paper off to see.

Yuri held his breath.

No, not a phone, this was so much better ― what Yuri held in his hands was a ― an action cam! Transfixed by the see-through plastic box with the waterproof action camcorder, Yuri read the accompanying cat shaped note penned in female English:

Dear Yuri,  
seeing you turn sixteen makes us delighted to call you our friend. Please, never change. You are such a strong person and a worthy opponent.  
Love ~ Victor & Yuuri.

Yuri couldn't help the tears that pooled in his eyes. "Th-thank you," he forced out his tremoring throat.

"You're always welcome Yurio."

Viktor and Yuuri smiled on him, but Yuri could hardly see their faces through the blubbering mess that were his eyes. He took a shuddering breath; blinking back tears he smiled at both Viktor and Yuuri who now stood by the sofa, gently holding Viktor's hand. Those two were made for each other, ...but Yuri would never admit _that_ out loud ― laughing, he shook his head and tuned his attention back to the others. He froze when he saw the huge orange-and-black tiger striped box in Grandpa's hands.

In a daze he unwrapped the box: hands moving mechanically, heart doing overtime ― what, what _was_ it? Grandpa kept giving him this stealthy smile between bites of cake, and everyone else was watching... did they know more than he did? He peeled back the final layer, and his hands halted mid-air. No way.

Yuri looked up at Grandpa ― how? How can we afford this?

He glanced down again, wondering if all of it was real, or if he was dreaming. But no, there it was: a DJI Inspire 2, with a flight time of nearly half an hour, a seven kilometer flight range, equipped with a Zenmuse X5S micro four-thirds aerial camera fitted with an Olympus 3.75x zoom lens, that could film at 5K resolution. The new Inspire model used an updated obstacle avoidance system, its body was made of a magnesium alloy that could withstand even exceptionally strong gales, allowing the drone to achieve a top speed of 94 kilometers per hour. This drone could be launched from altitudes as high as 5000 meters above sea level, its self-heating batteries let it function at temperatures as low as -20°C. And now he held this wonder of modern day technology in his very own hands, and he was not dreaming.

When Yuri had talked his head off about drones on those slow January evenings near the end of season while helping Grandpa out in the kitchen and impatiently counting the minutes till his next Skype chat with Otabek, it had only ever been a joke, an unattainable dream he liked to fancy because it was good to have dreams, right? Yuri never thought he'd actually get to hold one in his hands ― these things cost a fortune! Cradling the box with the drone against his chest, he gaped at Grandpa.

Grandpa set his empty plate down on the dining table, tilted his head and smiled at Yuri. In a matter of seconds Yuri had discarded the drone, sprang from the sofa, and thrown himself around Grandpa's neck, hugging him tightly as fresh tears poured down his cheeks.

"Happy birthday Yuratchka," Grandpa said patting him on the back.

"I Love it! Thank you Grandpa, thank you!"

Grandpa laughed, pulling free from the embrace. "That's quite alright; you deserve some pampering," Grandpa jokingly pinched his upper arm. "Yakov has been working you to the bone as of late."

Yuri smiled uneasily at the other skaters in the room. "Eh, maybe I've been exaggerating?"

"No such thing!" Grandpa clapped him on the shoulder. "Go boy, have some cake ― it's not often that you get to taste one of Sizov's masterpieces."

A ― a Sizov cake ― no fucking way; Yuri rushed to the table, tongue drowning in saliva. Cocoa cream sweetness hung in the air, titillating his accepting open nostrils. He imagined the wetness of the cake, the softness of its choco sponge layers pressed against his palate. How he would lick the cream off his gums and attack the cake with his teeth. He made it to the table to find...

...turd colored crumbs in place of the cake. _Huh?_ Confused, Yuri stared at the empty tray with a wide open mouth and an aching stomach. Was it _all_ gone?

"Ehh," said Georgi, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I didn't portion the slices right. I truly thought there was one slice left, umm... Sorry?"

Yuri stared at Georgi. That, that meant... it was _all_ gone? The entire cake?

Georgi pursed his lip.

Yuri's knees trembled, his empty stomach cramped up; he gripped the table to steady himself. That was when a plate of delicious looking chocolate cake was set down right next to his shaking fingers. _Huh?_ But the Sizov cake was gone, so... so what was _this?_ Yuri looked up.

Otabek smiled at him. "Have my slice."

Yuri's mouth fell open. "But, ...how ...what will _you_ eat _then?_ " he stammered.

Otabek shrugged. "I don't like chocolate anyway, so..."

Oh. Right ― relaxing, Yuri sent him a grateful smile. With an exhausted exhale he collapsed in a newly vacant high backed chair by the table. He took Otabek's plate in his lap, and with shaking hands moved the fork to his lips. Ah, chocolate! A wonderful sweet sensation overtook his senses as he wolfed the sponge cake down, barely chewing it, swallowing way too fast, he shoveled more cake down his throat. Otabek dragged his stool closer, and sat down next to him. Grandpa began fussing about with the glasses, and Yuuri helped him clear away the empty plates. Viktor moved the chairs and stools out of the way, while Georgi and Alina arranged the gifts neatly in one corner of the living room.

Mila walked over to the record player and selected a vinyl. The first track opened on a whipping beat; when the vocals started ― a clean tenor, followed by a chorus of male tenor voices ― Yuri quickly recognized the song as Dos Mukasan's _16 Қыз_. This was the record Grandpa had given Grandma years ago, before the divorce, in his last bid to save their marriage. On slow Saturday evenings Grandpa would sit by the gramophone and play this record over and over again; although Yuri hadn't heard the song in quite a while... He shot a worried look at Grandpa.

But Grandpa smiled back, nodding at him ― it's fine.

Once more Yuri made himself comfortable in the chair, the plate with his half-eaten slice of cake still in his lap.

Georgi took Alina by the hand and led her to the center of the room. They shared a secret smile of their own, before Alina curtseyed, and Georgi dropped down in a half-squat, bending through his knees. He grabbed her hip, pulling Alina close; her blue ruffles fluttered as her bare feet danced over the carpet. Alina's frolicsome giggle mingled with the music as Georgi twirled her round and round through the living room. Yuri spent a good minute just watching them dance; the song was drawing to a close when Mila approached him. Yuri frowned; Mila smiled shyly, looking down at her shoes. She glanced up: her bewitching blue eyes sparkled with an odd intensity, her soft lips turned up in the slightest small smile.

What? What could she possibly want? Yuri stared back, not comprehending any of it.

Her lips parted in a gentle smile, like she was about to say something. Yuri leaned forward, straining his ears to hear her over the music.

"I'd love to dance," Mila whispered conspiratorially. "But I don't have anyone to dance with." She batted her long black eyelashes.

Yuri gulped. Was she ― was she really? Mila was actually asking him to dance with her? But, but _why?_

She wiggled her legs, rubbing her knees together; twisted her thumbs around, and her lips made that adorable pout which was pure seduction. _Huh?_ How ― how was this even happening? He wasn't ready for _this_ , he...

"Would you be a gentleman and help out a lady in distress?" she winked, tilting her head to one side. A small curl of hair fell over her eyes. "Hey, Otabek?"

Ah, Otabek... naturally! Otabek had been sitting right next to him all this time. Mila's wanton display of sensuality had obviously been for _Otabek_ ― and _not_ for him. He should have known. Yuri felt so dumb right then he wanted to fall through the earth's crust and melt in molten lava, he wanted to turn invisible, to disappear entirely. His hands balled to fists and the fork jangled on his plate.

Crap ― what's wrong with me? All my friends are here, on my birthday, which is rare as fuck but it's happening, it's actually happening this very minute. They even brought gifts and cake and everything, this is supposed to be a _party!_ But then why... why do I feel ...so _alone?_

Yuri looked sideways at his best friend. Otabek's eyes were on Mila. _No, no, no_ ― _don't_ dance with _her_ , not here, not now, _please?_ Yuri's heart hammered in his chest, pulses of fevered anxiety ran through him, and he knew this was definitely _not_ normal when the plate began jumping in his lap because his knees were shaking. Crap, crap, crap ― what is this feeling? _Why?_ Why did he feel this way?

But moments later Otabek shook his head _no_. "I'd like to, but..." his words trailed off at the end, and he looked down at his hands.

Yuri raised an eyebrow at him. Mila still eagerly leaned forward, with a radiant smile that rivalled the sun. Very slowly Otabek raised his head till his expressionless eyes were locked on Mila's; his face bore a blank mask of utter indifference.

"I don't dance," Otabek said lamely.

 _What?_ Yuri turned around and openly stared at Otabek. What are you _doing?_

Mila's smile faltered. Weakly she tried to smile once more, and in a voice light as a feather she replied: "That's alright, really, we don't have to do any complicated moves." A short strangled laugh came out her throat. "It's just a birthday party dance ― nothing fancy."

Yuri nodded, closely watching Otabek's face, trying to make eye contact with him ― you're being an _ass_. What's wrong with you? Mila doesn't hand out these invitations to just anyone. If you're lucky enough to get one, you should just take it, for God's sake! It's just a dance, _one_ dance, she's not asking you to chop your arm off and feed it to the wolves; be _reasonable!_

But Otabek wouldn't be reasonable; he didn't meet Yuri's eyes and refused to soften his stony expression, instead he kept the dumb act up, repeating: "I don't dance," then a belated and incredibly lame "sorry" fell from his mouth.

The fuck.

Quite understandably, Mila looked not a little bit disturbed upon hearing this. But she overcame the shock quickly; Yuri gave her props for that.

"Oh well," she said, watching Otabek with a pitying smile. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable." Her gaze flicked to Yuri, now she looked straight into Yuri's eyes with that same well-wishing pity smile. "Sorry ― wouldn't want to step on any toes," she said, and with a wink she was gone, tapping her shoes on the carpet alongside Alina, and merrily shaking her butt to the beat of the next song.

What was _that_ supposed to mean? Yuri stared after her. From the corner of his eye Yuri noticed Otabek watching him. Yuri looked back ― do you really hate dancing _that_ much?

Otabek bit his lip, the stoic mask fell ― yeah.

Yuri nodded; with a pensive look he resumed eating his cake. Soon enough Viktor and Yuuri joined in the dance. Grandpa had taken Yuri's phone and was snapping photos of everyone. Yuri would gladly have danced as well, but he didn't want Otabek to feel left out. So he kept sitting by his best friend's side, even after his cake slice was long gone.

It was still light in the street and it had ceased raining when Yuuri and Viktor turned to leave; Yuri walked them to the door. Viktor was putting his shoes on, when he looked up at Yuri and gave him this odd smile. Yuri frowned; he handed Viktor and Yuuri their jackets, and thanked them for coming and all that, but all this time Viktor kept on watching him with this downright odd smile. Finally Viktor tilted his head to one side, silver bangs falling over his aquamarine eyes, and said:

"Listen Yura, it's nice that you and Otabek get along so well, _but_ , don't you think he's a _little_ bit too old for you?"

" _Huh?_ " Yuri's jaw dropped. Deepening his frown, he glanced at Katsuki and back at Viktor. "Both of you are much older than Otabek ― so what?"

Viktor grimaced. "That's hardly the same thing, Yura."

"What's the difference?" Yuri planted his hands on his hips ― the Nikiforovs were beginning to overstay their welcome.

"Umm," Katsuki started, biting his lip while twiddling his thumbs, "I think Victor is trying to say that, well, because he's older, Otabek might want to do some... physical stuff you aren't yet ready for ...?"

 _What?_ The fuck was Katsuki mumbling? What physical stuff ...wait,

" _HUH?_ "

Yuri took a horrified step back. _No!_ no fucking way on God's green earth could Otabek like him like that. How disgusting ― those _imbeciles!_ His hands balled to fists and his arms shook against his will, as he glared Katsuki down.

But this had no effect at all on Katsuki and Viktor: both of them kept giving him these concerned motherly looks. Then Katsuki said,

"We just want you to be safe."

Yuri stomped over to the door and kicked it open. Holding the door, he leveled a pointed glare at Katsuki, which hopefully conveyed the message: _Get out!_

Viktor stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Yuri's left shoulder.

"We don't want you to feel pressured into anything you don't feel like doing," Viktor said in his condescending adult tone.

Yuri shrugged him off, narrowing his eyes at Viktor ― _don't you dare!_ I don't need advice from you and Mr. Faggot over there. Too late, he noticed his own chest was heaving, and his breath was coming fast, in short ragged bursts. His cheeks were scorching. Why? He had nothing to be ashamed of! Fuck Viktor for messing with his head. Gripping the doorknob tighter, Yuri let the obscenities slip from his tongue:

" _Пошeл на хуй!_ "

Viktor replied with a congenial smile and a cutesy wink. "That's exactly what I'm about to do," he said, taking Katsuki by the hand and lacing their fingers.

Yuri couldn't help his own hands from twitching as he icily glared at their laced fingers ― эти педики! He slammed the door in their dumb faces, and marched back to the living room, where the normal people were. Slumping on the sofa, he let out a long sigh. Alina and Georgi had cuddled up on the sofa, while Otabek and Mila had been standing by the window, some distance apart, talking. As soon as Yuri walked in, they broke away from the window and approached the party on the sofa.

Mila smiled good-naturedly, "I think it's about time we leave," she said, looking at Georgi. "Can you drive me home?"

Alina nodded sleepily; unlatching her arms from her boyfriend's neck, she stood, swaying a little on her feet. Georgi took her hand in his, helping her catch her balance. After exchanging customary hugs and kisses, they both followed Mila to the door, and quite soon Georgi's hatchback Audi A3 buzzed out the yard. The breezy rose-scented perfume Alina wore still clung to the kitchen as Yuri finished up doing the dishes, his hands dipping in soap water to pull the plug from the sink. Next, fixing the mop head to a giant stick, he began the long and arduous task of mopping the floor, swiping at the muck his honorable guests had unwittingly dragged in. Yuri wiped the sweat off his brow, staring at the stains Lilia's stilettoes had left on the living room carpet ― those would take more than one evening to fix.

Displeased, Yashka tore at the cardboard gift boxes.

Yuri shooed the cat away; he picked the presents off the floor and carried them to his room. Yuri did a double take while carrying the last box: the clock caught his eye, he gasped. Was it already past ten? He shook his head; in his room, leaning against his closet he tugged his clothes off. Changing into linen boxer briefs and some old pass-me-down T-shirt he'd gotten somewhere, he snapped his earphones on. With his favorite song blasting from the speakers, phone securely wedged under the elastic band of his boxer briefs, he pulled out the sofa bed. Switching to a song he liked a little less, Yuri stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers. Not much later there was a knock on his door.

"Bathroom free?" Yuri said without looking up.

Otabek walked in with his toiletry bag under his armpit. He didn't say a word. Yuri's gaze trailed up from his bare feet to his checkered swim trunks and the _'I GO to the Gym every day'_ tank top he wore. Otabek's lower lip curled down as he stared unflinching into Yuri's eyes, his shoulders were tense, and he was obviously hiding something behind his back. Yuri craned his neck to see what it was, but Otabek merely turned with him, concealing the thing with his back built broad like the Chinese wall.

"Happy birthday," Otabek said tersely.

Yuri cracked a laugh. Sitting up on the bed and leaning back on his elbows, he looked Otabek up and down. "Yeah... You told me that like five hours ago?"

The stiff expression didn't leave Otabek's dead-serious face... he looked deeply unhappy for some reason. Yuri frowned, sitting up further and leaning forward till his feet touched down on the floor.

"Bek?"

"This," Bek started, his shoulders stooping as his arms moved to the front, and while he clumsily kept his toiletry bag under his armpit, a teddy bear appeared in his hands. "This is for you," he said, with the plushie pressed flush to his own chest.

Yuri stared at it in wonder ― the bear was not big, perhaps the length of Bek's upper arm to his elbow, if that. The bear had bushy eyebrows, like Otabek. It wore a funny looking hat, a matching overcoat and breeches, and clutched a small glass jar in its fluffy paws. The jar held a golden liquid, its paper label read: _Алматының Бал_.

Bek glared intently at him. Yuri stood, and walked the few paces toward Bek; he stopped when they were less than a meter apart, and looked up into Bek's eyes ― it was true, Bek was not that much taller than him, just a tad. Perhaps if he did grow an inch over the summer, they would be the same height. He felt something being pressed into his stomach, and without looking what it was, he took it. Oddly enough the teddy bear didn't feel as soft and fluffy as he imagined it would be. He kept watching Bek's face: the lines around Bek's brows and mouth were deep and hard, he looked positively angry.

"Sorry," Bek spoke without seeming very sorry. "Didn't know what else to give you." His piercing black eyes bored a hole through Yuri.

It felt like he stood in the direct line of attack. But somehow, instead of frightening Yuri, this made him want to push back, to jump in head-first, and approach even closer, despite knowing that in a fist fight with Otabek, he would lose.

"It's fine," he said, his voice sounded unbelievably warm to his own ears.

Bek's anger deflated upon hearing these words; the lines around his mouth smoothed over, his brows rose a tiny little bit.

Like a fool, Yuri kept on talking ― he didn't know what possessed him. "You don't have to give me anything, really, just you being here on my birthday is enough. It's... it's more than I could ask for."

After eyeballing him for an astonished moment, Bek offered him a small lopsided smile.

"I'm quite happy to be here too," Bek said in a softer friendlier tone. "You are the only one outside of my family who's ever made me feel at home."

Yuri's heart contracted in his chest, then started violently beating ― _fuck_. He couldn't stand to look at Bek any longer, he dropped his head, hair fell in his eyes and now he was staring at the floor at his snow leopard print socks. And finally he saw what he'd been holding in his hands this entire time: his fingers were feverishly clamped around ...Bek's toiletry bag...

 _...Huh?_ Yuri frowned, looked up at Bek again, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bek's cheeks turned crimson. Yuri had never seen his best friend's face look quite so red... Bek fumbled with his fingers, nearly dropped the bear, and as he mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a swear he quickly grabbed his toiletry bag out of Yuri's hands.

"Sorry, that was wrong, ...a my mistake," Bek said in broken English. With the teddy bear's ear pinched between thumb and forefinger, he meekly stretched out his arm. "This, this is for... for you."

Yuri took the bear and pressed it to his heart, a smile tugged at his lips.

"I love it," he said, looking directly at Bek's flushed face, into his dark impenetrable eyes.

Silently Bek nodded. For awhile they stood facing each other like that; Yuri waited for Bek to say something, but Bek never did... eventually Yuri took a step back, shaking his head with a carefree smile. He left the bear on a bookshelf, and headed for the bathroom. Glancing over his shoulder just as he walked out the door, he saw Bek sit down on the convertible sofa bed, looking utterly exhausted.

* * *

"That's wrong. Do it again!" Yuri shouted.

Hands on his hips, Yuri tapped his ballet shoe on the gleaming wooden floor. Bek was making a hopeless mess of the six step right in front of him . They were the only ones left in Lilia's studio after practice had ended. It was dark out; the curtains were drawn and the mirror lights threw their shapes against the windows, making their silhouettes move over the curtains.

Yuri groaned. "That's not how you do it ― just stop."

He threw his hands up in the air. Shaking his head, he crouched down beside Bek.

"Repeat after me," Yuri shifted to a push-up position, and did one six step in slow motion as he talked. He hoped Bek would get it this time. "Step to the right, to the right, to the left, to the left, to the right, to the right ― it's easy."

Yuri kipped up, landing firm on both feet. He winced, today's ballet practice had done a number on him... both legs were numb with pain, and no matter what he couldn't get _Hungarian Dance No.5_ out of his head. As soon as Lilia had left, he'd popped the Brahms CD out. Funky synthetic sounds filled the air now, blasting from the stereo at max volume. It was the first time Yuri got to play Pasha's breakdance remix. The beat pounded in his ears, like a fresh wind driving away the heavy Brahms. Yuri smiled until he noticed the lost look on Bek's face.

"That's it," Yuri said slowly, looking Bek in the eye to draw his attention. "That's the six step. There's not much more to it ― it's simple."

Bek stared at him with a dull, defeated look.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter? This isn't algebra or something." He spread his arms out, scowling at the word 'algebra' ― it still left a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn't too thrilled with last week's exam; he'd only answered about half the questions, and the teacher wasn't done scoring his work yet.

Bek scratched the back of his head, lips pursed. By the end of the day his combed back hair fell in tresses over his forehead, the hair gel unable to contain it. Bek roughed up the short hairs on the back of his neck, muttering something in Kazakh. Then he twisted himself into an ugly crouch that was painful to watch: he squatted close to the floor, bending through both knees. His left leg crossed over his right at an odd angle. His back was straight as a plank and his stomach pointed downward, the hem of his black T-shirt trailed over the floor. Supporting most of his weight with his left arm, his elbow and upper arm pressed tightly to his chest, his hand palm was flat on the floor, fingers clawing at the waxed wood. While his right arm limply dangled at his side, fingers brushing the floor. Neck stretched, his head tilted upward, his chin inches off the floor. Bek's lips formed a thin line, the corners of his mouth tugged down ― he didn't seem to be enjoying this much.

Yuri sighed. "Stop right there."

He bent himself over Bek's contorted form. Yuri put one hand on Bek's right shoulder and eased it up, then he leaned down and took Bek's right wrist in his hands. Tugging it, he pulled Bek's right arm up, high over his head. Bek grunted, and furrowed his thick brown eyebrows.

The song's lyrics started coming out the stereo: _"There's things that you guess, and things that you don't. There's boys you can trust, and girls that you don't."_

Yuri squatted beside Bek's left foot, and gently wrapped his fingers around the ankle.

"I'm going to move your foot," he said, looking into Bek's black eyes. "You ready?"

Bek gave a grim nod.

 _"I said I won't tease you, won't tell you no lies,"_ the song went on. _"You don't need no Bible, just look in my eyes."_

With one fluid move, Yuri pulled Bek's leg out until it was completely stretched. Bek shifted his weight so he wouldn't fall. His pose looked a bit more natural, some of the stiffness in his back had gone now that his left elbow no longer clamped to his chest. Yuri offered him a small encouraging smile, before he eased Bek's left foot to the left, spreading Bek's legs wider.

 _"I've been waiting so long baby, now that we're friends."_

Creases appeared at the crotch of Bek's skintight silver colored pants. Those pants must be two sizes too small, Yuri thought, his eyes were level with the creases ― he pursed his lips and looked away.

 _"Every man's got his patience, and here's where mine ends. I want your sex!"_

Yuri froze, his fingers wrapped tight around his friend's left ankle. He stared at the bare skin beneath his fingertips, the skin he was touching, the skin he felt, at the dark little hairs that sprouted from under those slim-fitting silver pants. His face heated up and he could not stop it, couldn't help it.

 _"I want your love,"_

He jerked away, dropping Bek's ankle. This, how could this happen, this wasn't supposed to happen, and now he looked ridiculous, and pathetic, and ё моё would Bek think he'd played this song _on purpose_? Fuck!

Yuri breathed through his mouth; his breaths came in short rapid bursts. He sat on the floor near Bek, and shuddered, staring at his hands. Something in the back of his mind nagged him to look up, to man up and look Bek in the face and... and _face him!_ Own up to what he'd shown, what sort of... _feelings_ he'd revealed and deal with this... this awkwardness between them. He couldn't bear to lose his closest friend, not over something this stupid. Slowly he let his gaze trail up over Bek's chest, to his throat, to his face.

And then he stared.

Bek's cheeks were flushed bright red, his normally half lidded eyes were thrust wide open, his brows so high they drove creases into his forehead. Slack jawed and with parted lips, Bek stared back, without saying a word.

Was Bek, ...was Bek as embarrassed as he was? Couldn't they just laugh it off, like normal friends would? Yuri started to panic. He couldn't, he wouldn't lose Bek, not over this, not over _this!_ Damn Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki for suggesting there was something wrong with them, something 'more than friendly'...bah. Yuri wrung his hands, looking for _something_ , something to say, something to do, something to get them out of this mess.

 _"I want your sex. I want your ...sex!"_ the stereo bellowed in a high pitched male voice.

Yuri glanced over Bek's shoulder, at the opposite wall, where the stereo sat, perched on top a small stool. The song was still playing.

"Turn it off!" Yuri shrieked, before he could stop himself.

Then he jumped to his feet, and started walking toward the sound. His hands were shaking.

But Bek was ahead of him.

 _"It's playing on my mind, it's dancing on my soul."_

Yuri stopped a few paces away from the stereo. Bek sat hunched over it, running his short stumpy fingers over the many buttons.

 _"It's taken so much time, so why don't you just let me go? I'd really like to try."_

Yuri groaned, threading his fingers through his loose hair. "Upper right button," he shouted over the music.

Bek punched it, and nothing happened, the song played on! The button, thought Yuri as he saw Bek punch it again and again, the button must be _jammed_. Fuck.

 _"Oh I'd really love to know."_

Bek ducked down and skimmed the wall with his hands, his fingers closed around the cable.

Yuri had turned to stone: standing there, his hands limp at his sides, feeling like Bek was miles away, somewhere far off in the distance, and he couldn't turn things back now even if he tried. He had lost his best friend now. It was over. He swallowed thickly as his eyes watered and his mouth went dry ― his tongue felt like sand paper.

 _"When you tell me you're gonna regret it, then I tell you that I love you but you just say no."_

Bek yanked the plug out the socket. Gasping, he sat on the floor with his back to Yuri, staring at the stereo.

The mirror was on the opposite wall, so Yuri couldn't see Bek's face. He had no way of reading Bek's expression at all. The silence that reigned over the studio was oppressive, suffocating. He had to say something, he felt, to relieve them of this... this sudden tense atmosphere.

Yuri took one step forward.

Bek flinched.

Yuri stopped dead in his tracks, his heart sank, and a horrid painful thudding started in his chest. Maybe this was a bad idea. Still he moved onwards till he stood right behind his friend. In a small voice, a too small voice, he said

"What's wrong with Mila, what sort of shit CD she gave me?"

Yuri forced a laugh.

"Like what the flying fuck?"

Bek turned around. They looked at one another.

Yuri couldn't help feeling flustered, couldn't fight the color in his face, his cheeks were burning. He couldn't see it, but he was certain they were bright red, giving away everything.

Meanwhile Bek looked a lot calmer than he had before: his cheeks bore their natural bronze pallor, his eyes were half lidded, his forehead had smoothed out, his thick brown brows turned down in a frown. And his mouth was shut, lips firmly sealed, jaw set firm, unyielding. He had closed himself off from Yuri, put up a barrier between them.

Yuri started talking to fill up the silence.

"This is the first time I played that CD, honestly, I didn't know what was on it. Just that it said 'breakdance mix' on the track list, and we were practicing breakdance moves, so it seemed relevant. It's not like I've got a load of breakdance mixes laying around ― I don't even like music. Normally I just dance without it."

He bit his lip in mid-sentence, realizing how silly he sounded, that he was rambling... but he couldn't stop now. Words tumbled from his mouth.

"And the track list on Pasha's ебаний CD doesn't even mention the original song names."

He grabbed the CD case to illustrate his point.

"Look! Pasha plagiarized _everything_."

Bek inspected the track list. Then he nodded stiffly, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

Yuri frowned. Were things really _okay_ between them? Could they just carry on as they used to, could they go back to the way things were, back to being good friends, as if none of this had happened? Could they? He looked up at Bek with wide, pleading eyes.

He didn't know why he said it, what moment of sheer idiocy prompted him to say it, but once he'd said it, he could never take it back... Yuri tried to smile, but it came out like a cringe. A nervous, jerky cringe ― his facial muscles were on fire, any moment now they would explode.

"Viktor and Yuuri seem to think we are in some kind of relationship ― other than friendship."

Bek stared at him. He stared at Bek. Bek's eyes grew wide. Yuri's smile collapsed ― _why_ had he said it? It was too late to take back now, too late, _too late!_ He felt like crying. But no, he wouldn't, couldn't cry! Crying was beneath him, it was childish, stupid, intolerable, and Bek would take his statement seriously, while he'd meant it as a joke. He had said it like a joke. So... why wasn't it funny?

Why ...?

The corners of Bek's mouth moved up slowly in a careful little smile.

Yuri frowned ― _what?_ What's so funny?

Finally, after all this time waiting around in impossible, unwearable silence, Bek opened his mouth to talk. When he spoke, his voice sounded reassuring, quiet and strong, like an old mountain river flowing in a steady course, the same path it had followed for centuries.

"Ah, that's actually quite simple," said Bek, his even, low-pitched voice grounded Yuri, put his thudding heart at ease. "They are _gay_ , so, naturally, they think everyone else must be gay, too." Bek nodded, pausing. "It's the way they live: they convince themselves that the world is gay, and delude themselves that it's okay to be gay, because everyone else is gay."

Oh. Yuri had not even considered this before, but it made so much sense. That is why Viktor was always inviting him and Georgi and even Yakov along to the banya, the public steam baths, though Yuri always refused... Viktor must think all of them were gay!

He listened to Bek with an open mouth and slightly furrowed brows, nodding along.

"So, any close friendships between two men are _'gay'_ ― that's how they see it. They don't know what friendship is, _real_ friendship ― they never, ever, _ever_ experience it."

Bek shrugged carelessly, and Yuri smiled; he felt so much better now. All of it made so much sense! It was good to have such a smart friend ― Bek knew so many things.

"That's right! I've never seen Viktor with any male friends who weren't also his fuckbuddies." Yuri's smile turned into a grin.

"Don't listen to him Yur," Bek said with a lopsided smile. "What he says has nothing to do with you. He's only trying to promote the gay lifestyle: it's gay propaganda."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Many thanks to **_Doolhoofd_** , who helped me translate a certain sentence! And **_Zara-Arletis_** , **_Squanpie_** , **_Cwovictor_** , **_SRSmith_** , **_Lady Troodon_** , thank you so much for helping me edit the chapter!

The song on DJ Pasha's _New Music 17 - MP3 CD_ played in the final scene of this chapter is a remix of George Michael's 1987 dance hit _I Want Your Sex_. :-) Yes, it actually exists.


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